The Chain
by Bons Baisers
Summary: Unable to alleviate the suffering of his team after the death of Asuma, kindhearted Chouji slips into a place where pain is liberating.  Shikamaru and Ino must pull together to save their teammate from himself, but doing so find themselves confronted with the true depth of Team Ten's bond.  InoXShikaXCho
1. Chapter 1

They're eating barbeque again. Everything is different, of course, because the little restaurant where they had shared one of their last meals with him is gone, obliterated. Their booth by the window is a memory, as is its wobbly tabletop and the little notch in its seat, where one of them, as a clumsy genin, had inadvertently scratched the wood with an unsecured kunai. The samurai painting that hung across the way is so many ashes scattered on the wind, buffeted into the past along with the porcelain dust of dainty blue-and-white tableware, from which they had sipped soup and plucked up rice and pickled vegetables. The new restaurant is identical to a dozen other shops along this road, one of the quickly constructed shelters raised in the days after the attack of Pain. Like all the others, the café's interior is serviceable, but painfully bland: no art on the walls, no pattern on the ivory china, no personality of any kind.

But they are shinobi, and they don't really mind the simple tableware or the barren walls. What burns is that he isn't here. They're here, together, eating barbeque as they used to do, but he isn't. Like their old haunt, Asuma is gone, a memory scattered on the wind, a scratch in a piece of wood consigned to flames long ago. The empty seat next to Shikamaru puts them all edge. After all the violence, somehow they feel his absence more keenly in the peace.

Shikamaru won't look at the empty seat. Ino can't stop looking, though it's a debatable whether she can see it at all. Her eyes shine with unshed tears, which threaten at any minute to spill over her pale lashes. Chouji is eating, of course, efficiently, quickly, mechanically, but without his usual appetite. Eager to escape Shikamaru's poorly concealed regrets and Ino's tears, he snaps the hot meat from the grill and swallows it down almost whole, burning his throat. He isn't particularly hungry for barbeque, not here, not while they are pretending like things are the same as they used to be. Barbeque with Team Ten has been a failed experiment. It isn't the same without Asuma.

Asuma-sensei's death isn't exactly fresh, and yet it is, because they had never really had the time to come to terms with it. Before they had even laid his memory to rest within themselves, he had returned to haunt them. His parting words of praise hurt terribly, because he should have been there. He should have seen them become the masters of their arts, should still be guiding their paths, their careers. The brief reunion had festered in wounds which had never healed in the first place and made the loss of him all the more painful.

Chouji's eyes linger a moment on the empty chair before alighting on the grill. He takes a big cut and stuffs the whole thing in his mouth, almost choking on it. Four pieces remain, and then they can leave this painful, awkward place.

"For gods' sakes, Chouji, slow down." Ino's voice is steady, despite the tears shimmering in her jewel-like eyes. "You'll make yourself sick."

A couple behind them snickers, and Chouji flushes. Shikamaru regards the pair of diners with a cool warning in his eyes, and the snickering stops. Since the ending of the war, that vaguely hostile chill pervades his character. Few of their friends know how to converse with him anymore; he is distant, cold, and inscrutable.

Ino's mouth purses angrily. She probably hadn't meant to embarrass him in front of anyone else, but she is as stubborn as a child, refusing to recognize any fault of her own.

She shoves her plate away. "I can't eat here," she mutters. Twisting in her chair, she jabs at Chouji. Her finger burrows cruelly, deep into the meat of his torso before he flinches, and a wall of thick muscle meets her elegant, tapered forefinger. "And you were supposed to be trying to diet, anyway."

Swiping at her eyes, she jabs the muscle again and leaves her finger buried in the soft flesh. "Didn't you promise?"

He opens his mouth to mumble an explanation, to tell her that he just wants to get them out of here, to finish whatever it is that they're doing as quickly as possible, but he can't find the words. He puts another piece of barbeque in his mouth.

"I guess your promises don't mean very much," she accuses softly, hunching futilely against her grief. Her voice is as cold as Shikamaru's eyes.

"Ino," Shikamaru snaps, turning that icy stare on her. Chouji looks at his plate and puts his chopsticks down.

She snaps back, because anger is easier to bear than sorrow. "I don't think gorging on barbeque counts as keeping his promise to…" She can't say his name, so she coughs to cover her breaking voice and turns back to Chouji.

"Anyway, it shouldn't be too much to ask for you to take care of yourself." Her finger never left his side; she takes a hunk of his flesh and twists it, as hard as she can, before finally releasing him.

"Dammit, Ino." Shikamaru slams his hands on the table, hard enough for other patrons to turn, curious about the argument.

"Well, it's selfish!" Ino hisses, shaking, eyes bright with fury and tears. "We already lost _him_, and now Chouji's trying to eat himself to death." Her arms cross her chest, hands gripping her upper arms so tightly that the pale skin turns white under her fingers.

"Chouji is fine the way he is," Shikamaru tells her flatly. "Asuma-sensei should have known that. You should know it, too." He glances at Chouji, who can't look at his teammates. "So should Chouji," he adds.

"Fine?" Ino's scorn is full of bitterness, full of regret. "He'll have a coronary before he's thirty. And I…" Her voice breaks again. "I _can't_…"

"I'm sorry, Ino." Chouji finally manages to speak. It isn't the first time she's gotten angry about his apparent lack of concern for his health. It is the first time her fears for him have reduced her to tears.

"See you later, Shikamaru." He slides out of the booth, patting Ino gently on the back as he goes.

"Chouji, don't be stupid. Sit down."

Shikamaru is upset. That in itself is telling, because Shikamaru rarely bothers to get upset. Mildly annoyed, perhaps. He is angry and hurting, and truthfully, so is Ino. So Chouji shakes his head kindly, raps the table with a farewell gesture, and tries not to let his own hurt cause his friends to suffer further.

Besides, Ino is right. Her own pain may have caused her to lash out without discretion, exposing her feelings and augmenting them with passion, but she is right. He hasn't done as Asuma-sensei requested. Shikamaru is wrong; he isn't "fine" the way he is, if he can be so callous toward a friend's suffering, so indifferent to his beloved mentor's last request. But then, his worth is the only thing about which he has ever known his brilliant, indolent friend to be mistaken. He no longer marvels at the novelty of his old friend's over-favorable opinion of him. Rather, he strives to be the man Shikamaru thinks he already is.

Someone calls Chouji a fatass on the way back to the Akimichi estate. He should pound the man into a pulpy mess on the sidewalk, but he doesn't. He doesn't want to fight, not with Ino's accusation playing on repeat in his head. The words sting – but she's like that, a stinging insect who injures and then forgets about its victim. Quick to anger, quick to forget.

Chouji is precisely the opposite. No stranger's passing insult could pierce his soul like Ino's biting observations that he dishonors their teacher, or her sincere fear that he is causing irreparable damage to his health. (On the latter point, he thinks she is probably wrong. There is no history of cardiovascular diseases in the Akimichi family, nor any other of the diseases she recites whenever she tells him to diet, and every physical to which he has ever been subjected has pronounced him perfectly healthy.) But whether she is right or wrong about his health is a moot point, because she is right about his promise to Asuma-sensei. And because she believes he's digging an early grave for himself and is afraid of losing him, so afraid that watching him eat makes her cry.

At least she wants him to diet because she's worried about him, he muses, as his steps carry him to the Akimichi compound. She nags him because she cares, not because she's embarrassed to be seen with him. There was a time she would have avoided appearing in public with him. Ever since Asuma died, though, she seeks him out more and more frequently. It's sweet, in a way, because Chouji hadn't been entirely sure of her feelings toward the men in her team until after their sensei's death. But her warmth for them isn't the natural bonding that occurs after the death of a loved one. She's afraid, terribly afraid, that Asuma won't be her only loss.

She needs to talk, but few of her closest friends have experienced such grief, and she lacks the patience to wheedle anything from Shikamaru, who only talks when he's in the mood to do so. The brilliant nin's own grief weighs so heavily on him that he can scarcely bear being in the presence of hers, let alone in conversation with it. So Chouji smothers his regrets and listens to her, validating her feelings, soothing her anxieties, neither challenging her rampages nor discrediting her exaggerations, grateful to be of use.

Shikamaru has also been more talkative, lately, at least to Chouji. Reminiscing occasionally causes him to fall into that black despair that plagued him early on, but such bouts are seldom long. Once in a while, he can even laugh at bittersweet memories. But he is taciturn and moody and waspish, snapping at Ino, at his family, at his superiors. Anger, never fully appeased, seethes in his belly, fermenting into a bitter cocktail of loss and regret, and impotent fury. To cope, he has latched onto behaviors and mannerisms that keep Asuma alive. He spends a lot of time with Kurenai and plays a lot of Shogi. And he smokes. Incessantly. And when he isn't smoking, he coughs, deep, gut-wrenching coughs that shake him like a leaf in a storm, barely holding to its tree.

If Ino seeks Chouji out when she is anxious, then Shikamaru always seems to appear when his mood is bleakest. Almost nightly he appears in Chouji's window, black eyes shadowed with ugly things. Sometimes he'll talk, quick, racing descriptions of what had taken place at Kurenai's, memories of old missions, jokes he'd heard. And sometimes he says nothing at all, but throws himself into Chouji's chair and stares at nothing until he finally passes out, so weary of _being_ weary that he can no longer keep his eyes open.

All of this frightens Ino, particularly the smoking. Perhaps it's the medic in her, or perhaps, like Chouji, her insides seize up with sympathetic pain at each ragged cough. She had nagged Asuma about it occasionally; now full-blown shouting matches erupt between her and Shikamaru - Shikamaru, who never used to bother arguing with her. Chouji doesn't like the cigarettes or Shikamaru's hacking coughs any better than Ino does, but he understands. Shikamaru cannot relinquish his unhealthy misery, because moving on means leaving Asuma behind, losing some of those insignificant memories which are now of paramount importance.

Ino worries about Shikamaru. She frets over his brooding silences, his uncharacteristic outbursts, and his cigarettes. She complains to Chouji, often and earnestly.

Almost as often and as earnestly as she nags and wheedles and cajoles and scolds him about his weight.

When someone has an irrational fear, telling them not to be afraid is pointless. Perhaps someday Ino will outgrow her phobia. But in the meantime, he has been unfaithful to his word, and unkind to Ino. He is her friend and Asuma's, and up until now, he has failed them both.

The only comfort to a person with a phobia is to remove the source of their fear. Though he always reeks of cigarettes, Shikamaru doesn't smoke in front of his team when he can avoid it. He, too, has recognized her fears for what they are and tries to avoid frightening her. It would be better if he quit smoking altogether, and Chouji knows he knows it. He can't do it. But he does what he can; even vexed with her (as he continually seems to be), he tries to shield her from her fears, an effort that does the lazy shinobi credit. Chouji hasn't even done that much, but he is going to do better.

He slips into his house unnoticed, just another tall, beefy guy with reddish hair. The stairs that lead to his room are close; he mounts them thoughtfully, mulling over his resolution. Removing the source of Ino's fear means dieting, and he has never been good at restraining himself. He is a born hedonist, enthusiastic, whether eating or fighting, loving or training, he puts his whole heart into the act and takes whatever pleasure he can from the moment. Consequences are always a thing for the future.

There is a full-length mirror in his bedroom. Always he has found his reflection mildly surprising, because he rarely looks at it. His hair falls just as it wishes, regardless of his machinations; his armor is a simple pull-over affair that requires no special adjusting. He cannot remember the last time he saw himself naked.

With a sigh, he locks his door and undresses. As he goes to the mirror, a heavy feeling settles in his stomach. Though his heavily muscled frame bears the extra weight well, there is a silly looking tan line around his neck and wrists; his arms, torso, and legs are as white as snow. He can clearly see the livid marks – they would bruise – where Ino had pinched him. Grimacing, he takes an experimental pinch of flesh for himself, watching his hands in the mirror. His belly overflows his fingers, so he gathers it in his hands, realizing for the first time in a long time just how much of it there is.

His stomach grumbles, and he rolls his eyes. It sounds a bit like a mewling animal, crying piteously for food. The Great White Beast, he thinks ruefully, and pats his belly in sympathetic commiseration. He can't feed it; he has made up his mind to do right by his promise to Asuma and his responsibility to Ino. So there is nothing left to do but redress and avoid the dinner table.

Belting his trousers, he moves the buckle to the next hole, mostly out of curiosity, and an idea comes to him. Perhaps what he needs in order to succeed at this diet is a constant reminder, an ever-present consequence.

He finishes dressing and heads back down the stairs, out the door, and into the workshop across the courtyard. The man there, one of many employed by the Akimichi clan, is pleased to assist him. He measures out and cuts a length of iron chain for Chouji, approximately the gauge of security chains occasionally found on household doors. It's good, solid chain, sturdy, reliable, and heavy. Chouji asks for and receives a small, locking clasp, similar to a screw-lock carabiner, of the same gauge as the chain. He thanks the workman and returns to the main house.

In his room he removes his red armor once again and stands before his mirror bare-chested, feeling foolish. He would like to forget the whole thing – he has been over-eager, as usual, to jump on a silly idea. But he sees the livid skin on his side, and he remembers Ino's tears and her fear-driven cruelty. He still desires to be the person Shikamaru thinks he is, and he thinks that such a man could bear some humiliation for the people he loves.

Holding up the chain, he eyes its length warily. If he cannot restrain himself, if he overeats, the chain will be there to remind him of his duties. The relationship will not be a friendly one, he fears, but he cannot ask anyone else to keep him in line and cannot trust himself.

Besides, it will be good to be able to keep track of his progress. It will be motivating, he tells himself, trying to be happy about this unpleasant decision. He tries to think of an appropriate reward for meeting his goals, but his stomach growls again, and all he can think about is food.

Chouji wraps the chain around his waist, just above his hips. His estimate had been close; there are only two links to spare. He tightens the chain two links, one for Ino and one for Asuma, reconsiders, and places the clasp six links from the end of the chain. Two extra links, he reasons, as an apology to both for taking so long to fulfill his responsibilities. The chain is awkward, but he expected that. He begins to screw the clasp in place, but reconsiders again, and leaves seven links free. Five links too tight.

Pale, flabby flesh bulges above and below, and for the first time, he finds himself a little self-conscious. A deep breath fails to calm him, because it is suddenly hard to breathe deeply. His belly strains against the chain, the flesh swelling even more noticeably. The armor will hide any tell-tale disfigurements, he knows, but he tries it on anyway, twisting and turning in front of the mirror. Nothing is revealed, and Chouji never takes his armor off in front of anyone. His private crutch will remain private.

The chain is uncomfortably tight as he lowers himself to sit on his bed, and he wonders if he shouldn't loosen it. That last link he had taken for himself, maybe it wouldn't be too wrong of him to undo it. But it is a punishment, albeit self-inflicted. Punishments are a kind of consequence, and consequences don't go away just because they hurt. Chouji should have stomped all over the man who insulted him on the walk home, and he didn't. So he shakes his head and leaves the chain alone, hoping the discomfort will remind him to take care of business next time.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun rises on the next morning, but Ino is already awake. Sleep has been a skittering thing for a long time now; it comes and it goes without any discernible pattern. Her dreams wreak havoc on her nerves, and she often breaks out of them with a wail, tears streaming down her face. But not this morning.

She has scarcely slept. Guilt roils wave-like in her gut, sluggish but powerful. She will apologize – she, Ino, who hates to be wrong, and hates even more to admit to being wrong – because lashing out at Chouji is unconscionable. Especially without the excuse of having been emotional; in truth, she had been ruminating over this shock-and-awe maneuver for a long while. She had regretted it the moment Chouji left the restaurant – she had expected some kind of protest, some manner of self-defense. But there was none. He had apologized and gone out quietly, leaving her cold and shivery all over, too sick with guilt to even pay attention to Shikamaru's infuriated tirade.

She is still nauseated with herself. Chouji should never be disparaged or belittled. He is the one person she knows who never mocks anyone. The memory of the calm acceptance in his eyes when he left makes her weep. She had essentially called him a big fat liar, and he had nodded and removed himself from her presence.

Ino sobs, perched on the edge of her bed, burdened with guilt in her belly and heartache in her breast. And yet, what could she have done? She can feel that she has wronged him, but he refuses to listen to her. Hadn't guilt been the only tactic left to employ? He and Shikamaru both ignore her warnings, brushing her aside like an annoying fly – and isn't that part of the problem? The oddball in their group has never been the lazy genius or the compulsive over-eater, but the perfectly ordinary kunoichi. She intruded on their special friendship, and secretly fears that they would just as soon not have her around. And that is truly sad, because she cares deeply about them both.

Asuma's injuries had been beyond her ability to heal – she can accept this. She can forgive Asuma for leaving them honorably in battle. But when the bone-jarring reality of his death had settled in, she had realized that the kind, funny, brilliant, incredible people she with whom she had once been forced to spend her days, and whom she now deliberately seeks out, would not always be there.

Having just learned to appreciate them, it frightens her to see her teammates self-destructing. The guilt surges, and for more than her spiteful remarks yesterday. Is she so useless, that she cannot make them protect what she now holds in such high regard?

Shikamaru's smoking is out of hand. Two, three packs a day sometimes. He coughs constantly and reeks of cigarettes. He spends an hour with her, and by the end of it he is entering withdrawal, trembling, moody. She points it out; he escapes to smoke. Chouji eats like a teenager, stuffing himself with junk food and pop. The medic in her sees visions of blackened, useless lungs and a dysfunctional heart, whenever she looks at them. Maybe it won't happen for years. But it is happening – they're dying, killing themselves slowly. And the med nin in their team cannot seem to do anything to stop them.

She tries. She steals Shikamaru's cigarettes and won't eat with them unless Chouji orders a reasonable meal. But an hour later, one is smoking and the other is downing barbeque potato chips as if he'll never see food again. Monitoring them every second is impossible; she feels like the mother of rascals hell-bent on turning her hair gray. So she scolds and pleads, and yesterday, she punished.

Ino buries her face in her hands. Chouji will forgive her. He shouldn't, but he will, because his kind heart will not permit him to hold a grudge against her. His sweet, gentle, fatty heart. She shudders and starts to cry. Open on her nightstand, with broken bindings, are well-read books outlining the dangers of her teams' bad habits, and her unwilling mind makes pointed, cold calculations, figuring up how many kilos of flesh Chouji has to move just to inhale, how hard his heart has to work to pump his sodium-rich, cholesterol-laden blood through his body. How much arsenic, formaldehyde, and ammonia Shikamaru breathes in everyday. How much money he spends replacing the cigarettes she steals, unwilling, or unable, to do without them.

It would be better, she thinks bitterly, still weeping, to give them up to death violently and young, than to watch them destroy themselves from the inside.

She forces herself out of bed and onto the scale in her bathroom, as she does every Saturday morning. Forty-seven and a half kilos. Scowling, she curses Chouji for making her eat out so much – she must, to exert any control over his diet, and in the doing she has gained weight herself. Black coffee for breakfast, she thinks darkly. Chouji had best not be stuffing his face when she finds him. Hungry herself, she will probably foul up the apology he is already owed, and end up having to apologize twice. And the only thing worse than admitting that you were wrong is doing it often.

The warmth of a hot shower comforts her, smoothing away the tension in her back, the knots and thorns left over from a restless sleep. A critical examination in the mirror reveals no noticeable swelling or bulges, and her irritation fades. She opts for street clothes anyway, clothes looser and less revealing than her usual kunoichi garb. Just in case. She drinks her black coffee, much to her father's amusement – Inoichi is used to her little vanities. He gives her a piece of dry toast; she raps him on the nose with it and stalks out of the house.

It is late morning, now, and Chouji will be training alone, near the river. Geese sometimes hunted fish there in the autumn, when the river was slow; she would feed them with Inoichi's joke of a breakfast.

Chouji doesn't like an audience when he trains, but Shikamaru and Ino sometimes go to watch him anyway. It is a sobering reminder that however harmless he appears, with his chips and his plump cheeks and cheerfully exuberant demeanor, Chouji is first and foremost a very powerful shinobi warrior. His weight conceals thick, well-trained muscle, his kind spirit an indomitable will. The earth moves, the river churns, and the forest trembles when Chouji trains – he is a force of nature. Ino actually enjoys watching him, enjoys the feeling of the ground rumbling under her feet.

Despite having once told him he would never get a girl because of his weight, Ino is now aware enough to know that the raw power of Chouji is very attractive, in a primal, animal sort of way. This, coupled with his gentle soul, leaves her with no doubt some pretty thing will fall in with him eventually.

Dancing between the leaves to hide her footsteps, keeping to the shadows, she sidles up to Chouji's favorite training spot. The pine grove stays mostly cool in the heat of early fall, mostly free of ice in the winter, and the tall pines give him plenty of headroom even when he is at the limits of his expansion justsus. It smelled good here, the river and the earth and the pines, fresh and clean, the best parts of Leaf all wrapped up into one tantalizing fragrance.

Chouji isn't training. He looks as if he is meditating, cross-legged on the bank of the river - probably taking a break, the lazy bum. But he isn't eating either, and as Ino's stomach whines plaintively, she decides that's enough.

All of a sudden, his hand grows, swelling like dried roots in water, smashing through the undergrowth, to where Ino is concealed. She grins. This is an old game, from their Genin days, and if Chouji is willing to play it with her, he has already forgiven her for her words yesterday. Better still, it's a game at which she excels. Even Shikamaru isn't as good as she is – probably because Chouji knows him more intimately, and can guess his movements more accurately. She leaps clear of the massive, searching hand, darting forward, still clinging to the shadows.

It's cat-and-mouse and blind-mans-bluff, as his giant hand strikes from the clearing. She giggles. Laughing feels strange, a good feeling she hasn't had in a long time, but she's given away her position, and the hand comes hurtling toward her again. She beats a hasty retreat, eyes fixed on the searching fingers – and smacks solidly into a second, gigantic palm, which promptly closes around her. Ino has literally played into Chouji's hands, and the thought tickles her so much that she begins to laugh in earnest.

"Chouji, you pervert – you're feeling me up!" She grins bigger, knowing he can't see her. He's so shy about this kind of thing that he does exactly as she guesses he will, dropping her like a live stick of dynamite. She flies through the air after the retreating hand, laughing still, and lands lightly beside her flushing teammate.

"Sheesh, Chouji. You're such a prude," she teases. She plants her feet in front of him, trying to assume a serious face. "What if I had been an enemy? Would you have let me go, just like that?"

"Probably," he admits. He's so honest about it that she can't even pretend to be upset, and she giggles again instead. Then she realizes that his breath is shallow, and that the redness in his face isn't just from embarrassment.

"Did that wear you out?" she demands incredulously, worried, tugging on his wrist for a pulse. "Just that little game?"

"No!" He jerks his hand back. "I've been here since before sunrise," he explains, quickly.

"You've been training since sunrise?" She eyes him, skeptical at first. But she sees the dirt and the sweat and the weariness, and decides he's telling the truth. "Well," she says, confused but pleased, "good for you, then. I'm glad – but you know, Chouji, in your case, extra training doesn't necessitate extra…"

She looks around, then, ready to remind him that he doesn't need more food just because he is working out harder than usual, but the empty bags of chips and remains of breakfast she expects to see are nowhere in sight. "Where are your snacks?"

His face tightens a little, and the expression is all wrong on him, because Chouji's face is expressly made for smiling. "I didn't bring any." He looks at the ground, rubbing his neck with a sheepish, sweaty hand.

"You didn't bring any." Ino's voice is flat, because even if he wants to avoid an argument, he shouldn't lie to her. She trusts her teammates with her life, mission after heartbreaking mission. He can't lie to her about something as stupid as food. He can't.

"None." He shrugs, hands limp at his sides, hunched over like a little boy waiting to be chastised. "I'm…" He draws a quick breath, releases it in an explosive, frustrated huff of a sigh. "I'm trying, Ino. You were right, yesterday. I did promise Asuma-sensei that I would try."

She rakes him over with her blue eyes, and he fidgets nervously under her gaze. "You're serious?" she asks after a moment, uncertainly. She would like to believe him, but this is Chouji. Preparing for a mission means gathering enough rations to feed an army for a year, rather than a week's worth of food for one shinobi. A morning's training, especially as strenuous as this one seemed to have been, required at least two bags of chips, on top of a hearty breakfast, and he should be complaining for lunch. She can't decide if he looks hungry – she has never seen Chouji stay away from food long enough to get hungry.

"Yeah." He huffs again, still looking at the ground. "I'm sorry. I haven't been living up to my word." A gurgling sound squeals from his midsection, and his crimson face blushes even brighter.

Ino is speechless. He isn't lying – his stomach is genuinely empty, probably for the first time since they've known one another. Her pride is significantly marred by her guilt – he believes she sees him as a gluttonous liar who doesn't keep his promises. But if guilt worked… it didn't matter. He still deserved an apology – he couldn't be left believing those terrible things she had said. She pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Chouji," she starts, carefully, waiting for him to look at her. "I don't…" He won't meet her gaze. "I mean," she tries again, "I came out here to…" To what? A snide little voice in her head berates her. Hurt his feelings? Lecture him like a child? His downcast eyes are embarrassed and sorrowful. It isn't worth it, she decides sadly, regretting the imminent loss of this morning's progress – a whole morning's worth of exercise, and without snacks! But he is too soft-hearted for tough love – she must find a better way to encourage him.

"I really just came to tell you that I'm sorry about what I said." The lump forming in her throat makes her voice hoarse. She swallows it, and says strongly, "And that I'm _not_ apologizing just because Shikamaru told me to." He had, of course, and stridently. Shikamaru is furious with her, angrier than she has ever seen him. But Yamanaka Ino doesn't do anything on anybody's say-so but her own.

"It's okay." Through her bangs, she can see that he's looking up, now, and that the flush has faded from his cheeks. "It probably needed to be said." He rubs a weary hand over his jaw – he hasn't even shaved yet – and finally catches her eyes.

There is no reproach there, only resignation, that same sad acceptance she had seen at the restaurant. Ino flinches – she should have realized that he didn't have the sense of self-worth it takes to turn a personal attack into worthwhile criticism. All she had done was hurt him. Pliable and disposed to please, he had taken her words at face value, without the indignation with which most people would have protected themselves, measuring himself by the ignominy of an insult – and a manufactured one, at that.

So she breaks it down for him, as she would for a bullied child, and hopes he listens. "It's never okay for someone to insult you, or say hateful things to you. Even – _especially_ – if there's a grain of truth to them. It's not okay for anybody to hurt you." Her eyes flash to his armor-plated side, and she bites her lip. She had bruised the tender flesh, she must have. "I wouldn't let anyone else talk to you the way I did yesterday, and I won't do it again. So I hope you can forgive me."

"It was true." He shrugs, but he's standing upright now, as if he has accepted yesterday's scathing critique and moved on.

"No," she corrects him swiftly, anxious to make him understand. "You're the last person on earth who would ever intentionally break his word. You were just taking your time – and no one can blame you for that. I shouldn't have – I don't. A lot has happened since you made that promise."

He frowns a little at that, thinking. It's a start, Ino decides, and gives him a confidential smile and taps his armor with a pink fingernail. "You're one of the only people in the world I really do trust, you know. Shikamaru, too. Sometimes I don't think he trusts anyone but you."

With a sigh she lays her last shameful card on the table. "Whether or not what I said was true is beside the point, anyway. I only said it because I hoped that I could guilt you into taking better care of yourself. It was stupid, and I really am sorry, Chouji. A good friend wouldn't have tried to get her way by making you feel bad."

"You are a good friend, Ino." He sounds sincere. "That's why I don't want you to worry about me anymore." Behind his armor, his stomach groans again.

Ino chuckles. "That is so bizarre," she marvels. "I've never heard that before."

"It isn't that funny," he mutters petulantly.

"It's a little funny," she teases. But looking at his armor, she bites her lip again. "Chouji... I pinched you, has it bruised?"

Some odd feeling flashes in his eyes, passing too quickly to be identified, but he shakes his head. "No, it's fine. You didn't hurt me."

"Don't lie – I got you good. Here, take your armor off, and let me fix it."

She recognizes the expression in his eyes now as horror. One big foot slides backward, like a wary animal retreating. "It's really okay, Ino," he tells her in a strangled voice.

"Hold still, Chouji, it'll only take a minute." She reaches out to lift the metal plates from his tunic; he jumps away from her hands as if she were offering him venomous snakes. Ino grinds her teeth. "What's wrong with you?"

"It's… uh…" He can't explain himself, but she can see his body is rigid with tension. He's afraid.

"Are you embarrassed?" she asks suspiciously. "Just to take your armor off?"

He latches onto that explanation, nodding his head furiously. She studies him, not quite sure what to think. "It's not like I haven't seen you shirtless before, you know. It's not a big deal."

"Sorry, Ino. It didn't really bruise, so can you just let it go?"

She frowns, then sighs and raises her hands in defeat. "I guess since I'm wearing my fat clothes today, I can't complain if you're suddenly self-conscious."

That calms him; the tension eases. "You're not fat, Ino." He must have repeated this sentence a hundred thousand times since the day they were first teamed up, and he manages to smile as he says it. She can never believe him, of course, but the positivity is nice.

"I'm getting that way," she grumbles, "because of all the eating out we've been doing lately." She looks up with a rueful smile, to let him know she's mostly teasing, but he looks serious.

The big shinobi crosses his arms and stares her down. She forgets, sometimes, just how tall he is. "An hour after noon," he says after a moment, "I'm going to get an ice cream cone." She stamps her foot, but before she can protest, he holds his index finger in front of her face. "Only one. If I'm by myself, I'm going to eat it. If you're there, I'll give it to you – but you have to eat it."

"Chouji!" Ino stamps again. "That's not fair – I have to diet, too!"

"I can be on a diet, or you can. But it's too depressing for both of us not to be able to eat." He grins beatifically, and Ino knows she's been beaten. He walks away, a little swagger in his step for his win, and Ino glares daggers at his back.

Looks like it's going to be black coffee for dinner, too.


	3. Chapter 3

Shikamaru leans against the memorial, turning his silver general over and over in his hand. This is the piece he wants to move, but there are two positions he could take. One would win in five moves, but he would have to sacrifice another piece; the other would take six. He has been mulling this problem over for almost ten minutes, and the general spins and spins and spins in his palm. Several more long minutes pass until he plants it on the "safe" spot, and taps a cigarette carton.

Nothing comes out. His temper flares – Ino has been rifling through his things again – then he remembers that he smoked the last of this pack after leaving Kurenai's. He hurls the carton in a sudden fit of anger. As it tumbles and bumps its way over the green cemetery, he stares after it, and a sick feeling settles into his stomach, instantly chilling his aggravation. He has many faults, he knows, but a quick temper has never been among them. The carton comes to rest against an old memorial stone, and it is crumpled and wet with evening dew, a silent reminder that things are not, and never again will be, as they were.

Shikamaru puts the Shougi pieces away, all but one knight, which he slips into a pocket. There is a chip in the piece, from a time when Asuma had slammed the knight down in triumph to check Shikamaru's king. It's a foolish, pointless gesture, but he can't bear to part with it. Already he is forgetting the look of Asuma's hands holding cigarettes, sliding pieces across the Shougi board, gripping their distinctive chakra blades. He is forgetting just how his beard was trimmed, and the inflection in his voice when he called his team together, and on which hip he wore his ninja pouch. Asuma is slipping away, like blood from a seeping wound, and Shikamaru cannot say whether healing or death waits at the end of the red tide. On moonless nights like this one, when only blinding flashes of anger brighten the cold void of his soul, death seems more likely. Or at least preferable.

Rustling leaves summon him back to the cemetery, and his eyes slide to the edge of the forest, where Chouji stands, watching, with an unreadable expression on his face. His eyes are fixed on the crumpled cigarette carton. A flush rises, hot on his cheeks; he had not anticipated anyone observing his tantrum. He looks away.

A fresh pack of cigarettes lands on the grass beside him. Chouji makes his way through the silent monuments as Shikamaru lights up.

"Thanks, Chouji," he says, exhaling a big breath of hot, bitter smoke. "How did you know?"

Chouji shrugs. "You're always out," he says mildly, without the accusation that Ino would have injected into the remark. It's a simple observation, but it stings and irritates nearly as badly as Ino's pointed digs. Shikamaru takes a long drag before answering, trying to reason himself out of his anger. Chouji has never been the passive-aggressive type – he had only answered Shikamaru's question, and with a perfectly valid answer at that. Shikamaru is always out of cigarettes. If he is worried, he will say so. Chouji's feelings never remain secret for long.

He looks up at his friend, who is leaning against one of the twisted, ancient oaks that tower over the graveyard grounds. In the weak lamplight, he looks weary and gray-faced, as if he is ill. Shikamaru examines him closely, albeit through seemingly bored, uninterested eyes. Everything sags, wilted like overwatered flowers. His eyelids and his mouth droop, both uncharacteristically uncommunicative, his shoulders slump forward, and his legs don't seem strong enough to hold him upright. Blood drips freely from skinned knuckles – he has been training, hard, and is utterly spent.

"You don't look well," Shikamaru observes, putting the Shougi board away. "Maybe you should take it easy tomorrow."

The big shinobi raises a tired, noncommittal shoulder. "Maybe." He sighs. "I really can't. I already promised Ino I would train with her."

"Cancel it," Shikamaru replies bluntly. "If you're not feeling well, Ino will understand." Or not. But who cared? Ino needed to stop meddling in her teammates' lives anyway.

Spikes of russet hair shiver as Chouji shakes his head. "I won't be breaking any more promises, Shikamaru." There is a peculiar tenor in his voice which is vaguely regretful, but which cuts with a curious edge, like a gloomy melody played on an instrument tuned a trifle too sharp.

"Gah." Shikamaru grunts disdainfully to cover his surprise. Chouji seldom spurns Shikamaru's advice. "You're not taking that bullshit from the other day to heart, are you?"

Chouji's head lolls to one side, thoughtful, and his tone retains that odd, wounded and wounding note. "It wasn't untrue," he says quietly, "and she's worried. Asuma-sensei would probably forgive me – he always did before. But Ino shouldn't suffer because of me."

Shikamaru snorts. "She's a busybody, and if she's suffering, she's brought it on herself by sticking her nose in where it doesn't belong. Of everyone I know, you're the most incapable of hurting anybody." He grinds out the end of his cigarette, as a wan smile tugs at the corner of Chouji's drooping mouth. "I'll talk to Ino;" he offers around a new cigarette, fumbling with the lighter, "you really look like you're getting sick. You should rest."

Chouji surprises him again by disagreeing. "Thanks anyway, but it will be alright. I'm going to go to bed early tonight, and I'll probably feel a lot better in the morning – I think I'm just tired." Amusement brightens his dull eyes for a moment. "Besides," he continues, "if you try to talk to Ino right now, she's just going to use it as an opportunity to tell you that you smoke too much, and brood too much, and enable my bad habits." He chuckles, a ghost of a laugh that doesn't sound at all like his usual hearty laughter.

"Bitch," Shikamaru swears, with more heat in his voice than he had intended for Chouji to hear.

The smile dies away from Chouji's mouth. "She's worried," he says again, his tone gently reproving. "And maybe she's right to be," he adds, looking at the crumpled cigarette carton lying ten meters away. "You never used to be so bitter."

"It's different now," Shikamaru snaps. His teeth come together with a click, but the words have already escaped. Has he ever snapped at Chouji before? He can't remember, but he doesn't think so.

Chouji doesn't seem perturbed or surprised by Shikamaru's bad manners, and that worries him a little. Had the big shinobi expected Shikamaru's unusual irritability to strike at him, sooner or later? Has he become so unlike himself in the ugly aftermath of Asuma's death, that this aberrant behavior is no longer strange? He doesn't know. Everything feels wrong.

"I know," Chouji is saying, "and I also know that's your fourth pack today. You know I would never tell you what to do, but I think you're carrying the smoking thing a little far." The calm, even measure of his words is the soothing murmur one might use with a frightened or injured animal. It should sound condescending, and it should be offensive. Because it is Chouji, it is neither, and Shikamaru's inexplicable anger fades, though more slowly than it had arisen.

Shikamaru thinks about that for a moment, allowing the red fire in his soul to die, and to give way to the blessed, painless darkness. "Concern duly noted," he replies finally, carefully modulating his voice to hide his emotions. He shakes the pack Chouji had given him, raising a curious eyebrow. "Why did you give me this, then?"

Chouji shrugs, that same tired, unsure gesture from before. It isn't like him to be so reserved, in voice or action. "You need it. I'm not sure why, and I don't like it, but you're smart enough to get out before you do yourself any permanent damage. You'll be okay." There is no trace of irony or doubt in his words, and the simple statement of faith makes a whole evening's worth of dark thoughts vanish. With them scatter the straggling whispers of Shikamaru's aggravation.

"Right," Shikamaru mutters, suddenly feeling a little ashamed of himself. This is why Chouji is his best friend – he asks for nothing, he only gives. Ino insists Shikamaru quit smoking – Chouji offers his concern along with a pack of cigarettes. He demands nothing from his lazy friend – everyone else has orders and requests, and orders disguised as requests, never willing to just let him be, to follow his own sluggish course.

Of Asuma's three students, Chouji has been only one strong enough and generous enough to confront his own grief, and still find the strength to sympathize with and comfort the others. He should not have to shoulder Ino and Shikamaru's pain alongside his own, but he does, and gladly. And they let him, too heart-sick to bear the grief alone. Gratitude is no just payment for all he has done, but it is all he will accept, and that reluctantly.

"Chouji," Shikamaru says, leaning back against the memorial, "you're the best." A smile flashes from the lantern-light, and Shikamaru manages a pale smile himself. "Are you really okay, though?" He is serious now; the longer he observes his friend, the more haggard Chouji seems to be.

"I'm fine," Chouji promises, "just tired." Even his voice sounds somehow weaker than it ought. Is he thinner? As he scrutinizes his friend from behind half-closed eyelids, Shikamaru brain snaps into motion, and he sees what he had failed for ten minutes to observe – there are no snacks in Chouji's hands. A suspicion clouds Shikamaru's mind. He opens his eyes fully and levels a frank stare on the weary shinobi.

"Are you hungry?"

Chouji pulls a face, the most animation Shikamaru has seen on his countenance all night. "Is it that obvious?" He sighs. "Ino says you can't lose weight without being hungry," he says, sounding a little forlorn.

Shikamaru rolls his eyes. "Let's eat, then. I'm hungry myself." He is hungry; he'd skipped dinner to play Shougi at the memorial park.

Chouji hesitates. "But… Ino…"

"Ino thinks a healthy diet is a little lemon juice, maple syrup and cayenne pepper in water." Shikamaru makes a derisive sound at the back of his throat, and even Chouji manages a laugh. For a moment, they are quiet, remembering that god-awful two weeks when Ino had attempted to subsist on spicy, sour sugar water. They shudder simultaneously at the memory, and laugh again.

Laughing feels unnatural, but it feels good, too. Healthy. As his friend nods at Asuma's memorial, Shikamaru's eyes linger on his powerfully muscled back, bent now with fatigue, with effort expended, as usual, for someone else's sake. As a child, Shikamaru had often curled against that broad back, snatching a few minutes peace from the busy, demanding world from which it hid him. Now, a Chuunin and nearly an adult, he relies on the strength and the shield of Chouji's presence more than he can comfortably admit, even to himself. And his fears about losing his friend are much darker and much more urgent than Ino's silly obsession over Chouji's weight.

With two essentially non-combative types as teammates, Chouji is the one always in danger, always on the front-lines, and always completely dependent on his team's direction and support. It isn't fair how exposed he is, how uneven the risks he takes. Shikamaru cringes just thinking about it - but he prefers it that way.

"If I'm out front," he'd once said, deprecating an injury incurred on a relatively routine mission, "you and Ino aren't." Thumping a massive bicep, he had grinned and added, "Besides – I can take it," as if it 'taking it' were simplicity itself. And for Chouji, it was simplicity. When the hammer fell, he would always be between his team and the anvil. It didn't matter that such was the lot fate had dealt him – it was the portion he would have taken for himself. It was where he wanted to be.

Shikamaru follows Chouji out of the cemetery, still lost in thought. They wander down the street, not really headed anywhere in particular, enjoying the cool autumn air and the bubbly, happy sounds of a prosperous town. Neither one breaks the silence for a long while. Chouji watches the ground before him, still a little stoop-shouldered, and Shikamaru watches Chouji. In the brighter ambiance of the village, lit by storefronts and houses, he can see the careful way Chouji holds himself. He frowns sympathetically – he has probably pulled something in his back or side – Ino had mentioned he had been training especially hard recently.

"Chouji."

Dark eyes glance back at him, and a questioning grunt accompanies them.

"You sure you're up to training with Ino tomorrow?" He's nagging, now, as blatantly as Ino ever has, and he's disgusted with himself for it. But in the clear evening lights of Hidden Leaf, there's no mistaking that besides suffering from hunger and exhaustion, Chouji is in pain. And Ino is notorious, even outside of their team, for being merciless in practice, with herself and with anyone unfortunate to be with her.

Chouji smiles. "No," he admits candidly. "I'm pretty sure she's going to kill me. I'm not sure if I'm going to starve or die of exhaustion first, though." Shikamaru opens his mouth to object – Chouji's death is not something he wants to joke about – but Chouji pulls another face, and he holds his tongue. "She might just have time enough to nag me to death," Chouji suggests regretfully.

"Maybe I'll tag along," Shikamaru offers. He has been reluctant to take this path, as it means spending a good long morning with Ino, without his cigarettes, and sweating bullets when he might have been playing Shougi under a cool blue sky, far, far away from Ino's shrill orders and ruthless calisthenics. But Chouji and his broad back have shielded Shikamaru countless times; Shikamaru figures he can take the brunt of Ino's attitude this once.

"You can if you want to," Chouji replies. The relief in his tone is only too evident, and Shikamaru immediately resigns himself to an unpleasant morning. "Although the two of you have been like a pair of beta fish lately. Are you going to be able to keep a lid on it?" He is mostly joking, but there is a serious note in the question.

Shikamaru considers it for a moment, and then he smiles. It feels a little tight, but good, like a sleepy stretch. "Nope," he admits cheerfully. "I'm pretty sure I'm going to kill her."


	4. Chapter 4

Chouji's dreams crash down around him as he wakes, drenched in cold sweat, curled over his empty stomach and a hunger so powerful it is indistinguishable from nausea. The chain bites painfully into his flesh in this position; he unfolds himself and lies flat on his back. Immediately, a slow burning behind his ribcage reminds him that his churning stomach is full of undiluted acid. Groaning with frustration, he forces himself to sit up, ignoring the contraction of the chain as he does. Shikamaru stirs beside him, but does not wake.

It's too tight – bruises ring his waist, blending seamlessly into the fading marks Ino left on him a week ago. But it isn't tight enough, either, and that's why his hunger is so terrible. Until he can tighten the chain another link, he won't eat. He hasn't eaten in over twenty-four hours.

The training session this morning – yesterday morning, dawn is breaking outside – had ended in disaster, with Shikamaru and Ino refusing to speak to him or to each other by the end of it. Ino and Shikamaru still aren't speaking, though both have already apologized to Chouji. He had not been angry with either one of them, and isn't the type to hold a grudge even if he had been.

It hadn't been his fault, really. Several days of intense training and a severely restricted diet had weakened him more than he could have foreseen – how could he have known? Hunger is a new feeling, and he couldn't have known that he had overdone it. Collapsing had probably been inevitable, though it would have been nice if he hadn't hit the tree stump with his head on the way down. Thankfully he had only blacked out for a moment. Of course, upon waking with blood in his eyes and Ino screaming in his ear, he soon found himself wishing he'd stayed unconscious.

Ino had excoriated him for being so out of shape, shrieking and cursing and crying – a diatribe far more disturbing than her performance at the barbeque grill. Chouji recognized the shrill note of fear in her voice – it must have seemed as if her worst predictions were coming true – so he spoke softly, holding his split forehead together in one hand, gripping the spinning ground with the other, all the while trying to convince her that he was only tired and hungry. The senselessness of it all lit up Shikamaru's already badly frayed nerves like a fuse, and the resulting explosion had been cataclysmic. Projectile-like invectives shredded them both, with expletives Chouji had never heard him use before and words he didn't understand. 'Puerile' he had managed to look up. Most of the others went right over Chouji's head.

In the end, Shikamaru and Ino had both stalked away, seething, too caught up in their own thoughts and rage to remember Chouji's gaping forehead. He sat quietly on the ground for several minutes before attempting to rise; when he did stand, he nearly fell over again, concussed and weak. After he staggered off the training grounds, some little kids had panicked over all the blood and brought one of the nearby shop owners to cajole him into going to the hospital. Sakura had made short work of him, and not even a scar remained when she finished. The concussion she could not heal so simply, so after thoroughly inspecting the injury, she had sent him home with strict instructions to return in the morning and to take it easy for a week.

Ino had dropped in that afternoon with her apology, pale, unnaturally subdued, quiet, and contrite, but it was late in the evening before Shikamaru stole into his window. The troubled shinobi left the casement wide open as he made his apology; the cool night air stroked Chouji's freshly washed hair with gentle fingers. His words were sincere, if brief, but he quickly sank into a quiet self-loathing that hurt Chouji more deeply than any words spoken in anger ever could have done.

So black was Shikamaru's demeanor, and so deathly somber his eyes, that Chouji could not in good conscience allow his friend to leave. It was the kind of bleak desolation which cultivates ill thoughts and desperate deeds, the shadowed ground in which even good men may wither and die. Chouji feared it, not for himself, but for Shikamaru, who had become so firmly rooted in its barrenness. In no mood to deny Chouji anything, Shikamaru had flung himself down on the bed beside him. Neither had spoken since.

Chouji slips into the bathroom and opens his robe to reveal the discolored, distended flesh that spills above and below the chain. He stares at it for a moment, thinking it is a proper metaphor for the weight of his broken promises, for the ugly presence of his failures. As he fusses with the clasp, pleading with it to move the last centimeter that would bring it to the next link, the link he'd assigned to his stupidity in allowing Ino and Shikamaru to see him so weak, he realizes that physical hunger and the desire to eat have become separate entities. The great white beast howls for want of food, but the thought of eating sickens him. Even as he craves something to take the edge of the painful gnawing in his gut, the thought of willfully adding to the bloated flesh only nominally restrained by the chain disgusts him. It's become synonymous with failure, with broken vows, with a loathsome self-indulgence that doesn't care about anything but its own slavering appetite.

The clasp won't reach, and he would cry for frustration, but he starts to hyperventilate, unable to pull a full breath with the pressure of the chain restraining his diaphragm. He forces himself to breathe normally, to stay his tears, afraid he may wake Shikamaru. This one thing he wanted to do for Ino, to lose weight, this one simple thing to ease her mind, he's failing at this, too. He is still eating too much, or not exercising enough, if the chain won't grant him this single link of forgiveness. And yet part of him still wants to eat, wants to rest when he should be up, moving, running off the fat of accumulated failures, of self-gratification.

He hates it, he discovers with a shiver, hates the fat and the hunger screaming below his ribs. Me, it cries, take care of me. I need, it moans. I want! Me, me, me. Selfish, selfish, selfish.

He straightens and finds his bloodshot eyes in the mirror. Two links, he swears, taking a slab of flesh between his fingers and pinching it viciously. He won't eat at all, until he can tighten the chain another two links. The one for his stupidity in allowing his friends to see him suffer, when they are already so consumed in pain and grief. The other, for his selfishness.

He leaves Shikamaru sleeping in his bed, restless, at loose ends and unhappy even in slumber. Pulling on his armor to conceal the ugly bulges of flesh, Chouji goes through the empty window and begins to run. He will lose weight for Ino, he swears, forcing his exhausted body to move, to subsist on the shallow breaths the chain permits. He will make Ino unafraid. He will be stronger, he will develop the will and the resolve to force Shikamaru to face his addiction, the ability to hold his fragile friends together. He is fat and lazy and weak and selfish, but he will be better. Ino and Shikamaru need him to be better. He has to be better.


	5. Chapter 5

"I was a real bitch last week." The taste of the words in Ino's mouth are bitter, clinging to her lips like stale coffee, but let no one ever say Yamanaka Ino is harder on anyone than herself. She can be heartless, but at least she doesn't spare herself her scorpion's tongue. Not to Shikamaru or Chouji, at any rate, who deserve her honesty about all things – their failures, of course, and their triumphs – but hers as well. It was, as Shikamaru has reluctantly allowed on more than one occasion, the grace that redeems her frankness: she is invariably just. She criticizes only when criticism is merited, and she is as likely to judge against herself as either of her teammates. Unlike most self-titled perfectionists, Ino is absolutely willing to own her mistakes.

"I wasn't any better." Shikamaru nurses a cigarette, careful to blow smoke downwind of his teammate. "No apologies, though."

Ino nods gratefully – she's apologized to Chouji twice in as many weeks, and has no stomach for more. "Agreed." There is a faint tug at her ponytail; a quick downward glance reveals Shikamaru's shadow flickering, a split second too slow, back into its hominid shape on the ground. She grants him a rueful smile, which he returns with a very faint smile of his own. He grounds out his cigarette against his shoe.

His fingers tremble toward his vest pocket – he stills them and slides his hand into his pocket. Ino doesn't acknowledge the sacrifice – to do so would be counterproductive. Shikamaru's petty streak is incongruent with his deductive prowess; only those who know how deep the waters run beneath his placid surface recognize the currents of obstinacy and contrariness that occasionally overpower his reason. He'll light another cigarette just to prove he can, and will, do as he pleases, if she takes any observable pleasure in the fact that he refrained. Chouji has always been better at navigating those deadly currents than she has.

"Ino. Are you listening?"

"Sorry. Say again?"

"I asked if you were hungry."

The scale has returned to a respectable number; Ino shrugs. "Depends on what you're in the mood for."

"Barbeque," he replies much too quickly.

Ino gives him a speculative look and huffs thoughtfully. "Chouji's been a little out of sorts lately," she says, by way of answer. "We should invite him." Shikamaru's dark eyes are inexpressive at the best of times; just now they are utterly unfathomable. But Ino doesn't need to see concern in the black orbs to know he is worried. As she is.

Shikamaru nods without saying a word, and turns to leave, to collect the one member of their team who had, for a time, seemed to keep himself intact after Asuma's death.

Because that's what it is, really, Ino thinks, watching Shikamaru stroll away, unhurried, even in his anxiousness. That's what's wrong with them. There is a sucking, hungry hole where faith had been, and it's because Asuma is dead.

Not just dead. Taken. Stolen. Ripped, torn, wrenched away.

Maybe it is the loss of innocence that all children experienced – but the slow abrasion of youth that buffs most adolescents into adults has been indecently accelerated, and there are open, raw, bleeding wounds where their innocence had been.

At first, Ino feared that Asuma had been the lynchpin, a nucleus which the three of them circled, clinging to him like so many tiny electrons around a massive, positive core. That without him, there was nothing to hold the three surviving members of what had been Team Asuma together. But she thinks now she was wrong. Ino-Shika-Cho is a perfectly equilateral triangle; their teacher had been a circumscribed circle about them that had shielded them from the ugliness and the insanity and the brutality of the world outside. But there is still an inside to the triangle, Ino tells herself, no matter how torn and bloody and tired and worn the exterior of it has become. And that part can still be pure and perfect and full of faith, and separate from the outside that destroyed Asuma. If they hold on to one another.

If she can learn to build them up, without tearing them down. If they can be assured she won't ever criticize such things, maybe they will trust her with their fears and their dreams. She has not been someone in whom either of the boys could confide – she must become a person with whom they can always be honest, as she has always been honest with them. But she can be better. She must learn to bite her tongue and keep her peace, when speaking can only hurt. Shikamaru will always be melancholy, indolent, and uncommunicative. Chouji will always eat too much. If she will stop demanding they fix themselves, and perhaps they'll be more willing to admit they need fixing. Maybe they'll even allow her to help.

If Shikamaru can be honest enough with himself to admit that he's barely holding it together, and if he will reach out just a little to the people who would give anything to pull him back from the edge, maybe she and Chouji can save him from himself. He's too brilliant to stay sane in a world of senseless violence. The calculations will never add up. The most perfect plans will fizzle occasionally. And Shikamaru will go mad trying to make sense of an incomprehensible world, if he clings to nothing but his own callous reason. He is depressed and grieving and confused, but if he can see it, maybe he will accept the comfort he so desperately needs. Maybe even become able to ask for it.

If Chouji…

Ino sighs and seats herself on a bench to wait for the boys. She can't blame Chouji. Chouji has been doing his part – has been the only one doing his part. A deep aversion to conflict has bred in him an incredible tact and diplomacy; he has kept the lines of communication open in the face of her slashing tongue and Shikamaru's stubborn silence. And somewhere along the way, he's found… well, Ino doesn't know what he's found. A motivation. A drive. Something is pushing him, and she doesn't like it.

He has kept his promise. He will never be thin – and Ino wouldn't want him that way. She has memories of her broken teammate after the failed attempt to retrieve Uchiha Sasuke, all bones and sunken flesh, eyes three sizes too big in a face three sizes too small. Healthy – that's all she wants. Fifteen percent more than what a healthy shinobi his height, with a normal metabolism and an admittedly large frame, should weigh. That's safe. He can use his jutsus and even the spinach and curry pills effectively at that weight, without the side effects of obesity. Safe, and healthy. She can't be asking too much, can she?

And Chouji is getting closer to that number she told him was perfect, because he's kept his promise. But Ino, who has been on every stupid crash diet out there, who has pulled her hair out in gobs and bruised at the lightest touches because she'd inadvertently starved herself, Ino can see that Chouji is not healthy. He's thinner. But he is not healthy. He's lost a lot of weight in a short amount of time; of course, he's _big_, a bigness of heavy bone and thick, powerful muscle as much as flesh, and between the demands of his impressive musculature and his jutsus, his metabolism is incredible. The speed of his weight loss alone isn't troubling in and of itself. His drawn gray face, his obvious weakness and less obvious pain – those are more alarming. The worst of it, though, is that indefinable drive, the determination that presses his mouth into a thin line of pain, the resolve that draws his shoulders back and puts a grim set in his jaw. And something else, something she thinks she recognizes.

The last time she saw that awful fevered fire in someone's eyes, it had been Shikamaru, the day of Asuma's funeral. His father had talked him down from a terrible ledge that day, and Shikamaru had been able to take that… that… whatever it was, and turn it into a brilliant plot for revenge. It is something she has never experienced like Shikamaru had that day, and still can't quite grasp.

Desperation. Guilt. Resolve. Disgust. Ino can't name all the tumbling emotions that lurk in Chouji's weary eyes, but they lack the stagnancy of Shikamaru's current, stifling melancholy. The darkness is full of purpose, while Shikamaru's depression is listless, apathetic. Chouji is driven, and it can't be anything good spurring him to maintain the punishing diet and exercise regimen he has adopted.

Ino looks up the road and sees Shikamaru walking side-by-side with Chouji, whose face is anxious and troubled. Her heart sinks as she watches his painful shamble toward her, a halting gait that had been a surefooted, purposeful stride only a few weeks ago. She pulls a deep breath into her body and puts a false smile on her mouth – Shikamaru will know it for a fake, but Chouji believes her lies, always – and bounds to her feet with vigor and energy she doesn't feel. "Chouji!" She beams at him.

He smiles back at her, and she wonders how he makes the expression so real, when his eyes are full of hurt. "Hi, Ino," he says. His voice is gravelly and quiet, and she raises herself up on her tiptoes to touch the side of his chubby neck.

"Are you feeling okay?" she asks, ostensibly searching out a swollen gland with her fingertips. She finds none, but his heart rate is sluggish, and sloshes unevenly under the light pressure. Most concerning. "You sound a little hoarse."

He catches her hand in his and gently pushes it back toward her. "I'm fine." He flashes a grin at her, and for a moment the darkness in his eyes recedes. "I never get sick, Ino, you know that. It's probably just the weather," he says confidently, "I feel fine."

"You don't look fine," she tells him, injecting a note of condescension into her tone. Bossy. Self-assured. Nosy. Flippant. She must act like herself, because something is very wrong, and she's afraid of pushing Chouji just now. She probes his eyes – they're really very pretty, she realizes suddenly – trying to label the suffering she sees there. "You look…" Ino pauses, as his eyes cloud over, retreating from her scrutiny, "hungry," she says finally, with feigned satisfaction. "You're really sticking to your diet."

She says it with a pride she can't muster, because a deep and urgent _something_ in her gut warns her that even the most concerned, gentlest criticism would be dangerous. Yet the mild observation brings a haunted look into the dark eyes – are they black? Or are they brown? – and Chouji looks at the ground.

"I'm trying," he says, finally. The tone of his voice indicates that he believes he is failing, despite his obvious progress. He sounds lost, and for Ino, the rawness in his voice is so painful that Ino finds she's suddenly unable to breathe.

She skillfully conceals a shiver as she opens her mouth to supply the appropriate "Well, you're doing great." Stepping closer, she smiles, peering up into his eyes – and how had she not noticed how pretty they were? "Actually," she demurs, "that's sort of why we wanted to see you. You've been doing so well, we think you deserve a break. So, barbeque is on us tonight."

Chouji stands absolutely still. "I'd better not."

In the periphery of her vision she can see Shikamaru's start of dismay, and his black eyes widen with confusion, anger, and something else, something at once fierce and very tender. There's no name for it, but Ino doesn't require that feeling to be labeled, she shares in it fully. It's the closing of the herd around a vulnerable member in the face of a predator, a chaotic but single-minded act of protection. She throws her aquamarine gaze to Shikamaru's black one for only a moment, and finds for once, that they are in complete accord. He pointedly clenches his jaw and presses his lips together, allowing the better social navigator to guide him through the minefield they've encountered.

She frowns, petulant. "But I've barely seen you these past couple of weeks! And Shika's just been unbearable."

Chouji smiles apologetically. "I'll try to be around more," he promises, his voice husky with fatigue. "But you know I can't control myself around barbeque."

"It's important to splurge occasionally when you're on a diet," Ino says self-importantly, flipping her ponytail over one shoulder, praying he can't hear her heart thump-thumping with rising fear. "If you're too miserable, you won't want to stick with it." Winking boldly, she adds, "Besides, we won't let you go too overboard, not when we're picking up the tab."

Chouji shakes his head, and behind him Ino can see Shikamaru's barely contained frustration threatening to escape the dark-headed nin's self-control. "I'm really trying hard, Ino," Chouji says gently, "please don't tempt me."

He smiles, the sweet, kind smile that she had overlooked for too many years, and of which she has only begun to recognize the value. "I'll eat at home. It's easier."

Shikamaru is livid, pale-faced with something that isn't fear and isn't anger and is somehow both. Ino makes a negligent sign with her hand – knock it off, she warns – and turns her pout into a coy smile. "Okay – can we invite ourselves over for dinner, then?"

Chouji stares at her for a moment, and with a sudden crystalline clarity she knows he hadn't been going to eat at home. He hadn't been going to eat at all. "Um…" He flounders.

"Your mom has always told us to drop in whenever," Shikamaru reminds him. "And if we go now, she'll have plenty of notice." He is calmer, finally able to admit to himself that he was right to allow Ino to take the lead in this unfamiliar territory, recognizing that she has backed Chouji into a corner, and has no intention of allowing him to escape.

"I… I guess so…" Deep chagrin floods his face – he can't hide himself the way his teammates do. Both of them are grateful for his clumsy, endearing ingenuousness – Shikamaru because he never has to exert himself to understand his best friend, and Ino because she spends all of her energy trying to figure out Shikamaru.

"Great!" Ino cheers. "Your mother is an awesome cook. Let's go, I'm famished!" She links arms enthusiastically with the big shinobi, and starts to pull him toward the Akimichi compound. Chouji manages a weak smile. Already she can see the wheels turning in his head, as he dredges his brain for an escape route.

Struggling to conceal the fierceness that keeps slipping into her smile, she squeezes the thick bicep. It's two on one tonight, Chouji, she warns him silently, so don't fight us too hard. She and Shikamaru are working like a team, hand-over-hand, just like they had when Asuma had been there to chide her for her temper and exhort Shikamaru to activity, to balance their wildly different personalities and needs, before his depression, before her fear, before the loss of innocence that ruined their teamwork and threatened their friendship.

Ino glances at Shikamaru, who is having an even harder time concealing his worry than she is. Shikamaru catches her gaze, and the wordless apologies and silent promises between them are worth more than being right. Whatever their differences, Chouji was more important, and if they could come together for him, they could come together for anything – they just had to find their balance again. Teamwork required a certain tempo, like music, and Asuma had been a base beat, but Chouji was just as stable a time-keeper as their sensei had been. He was subtler, quieter, less insistent, yet as steady as a pulse; it had taken the faltering of the beat to capture their attention. She had never been quiet long enough to hear it, and Shikamaru had been so fixated on the missing line that he had missed it, but they were listening now. And they could find their rhythm again.


	6. Chapter 6

Shikamaru twists in his bed, snarling the sheets, frustrated, sleepless. He would kill for a smoke, but he's out again, and no shop in Konoha is open at this hour. There's a sick feeling in his gut and an ache in his head, annoyances that have become as persistent as the black circles that ring his eyes. Perhaps he is hypersensitive to nicotine, that it has such an effect on him. Or perhaps he has simply become so dependent on it that sleeping through the night without it has become impossible.

Either is possible, but it isn't withdrawal that's keeping him awake tonight. Chouji had been unusually shrewd, and used his obvious ill health to his advantage, subtly pushing his parents to dismiss his friends almost immediately after their meal. Rather than feign good spirits, as was his wont when he was genuinely sick or troubled, Chouji remained quiet, subdued, and – as always seemed to be the case these days – not hungry. When Ino had smiled her charmer's grin and asked to go to Chouji's room to talk, both of his parents politely objected. Chouji offered no resistance, apologizing quietly to his friends before retiring to his bedroom, and leaving Ino and Shikamaru mystified and discontent.

Shikamaru knows nothing, but he is not willing to wait for Chouji to come to him anymore. It is disconcerting that Chouji hasn't sought him out. From the earliest days of their friendship, Shikamaru has been his sometimes-reluctant-but-always-available confidant. His idle crushes, deepest insecurities, and fondest dreams, he had offered them all up for Shikamaru's scrutiny. Shikamaru had found it wearisome on occasion, but now he finds himself resentful of Chouji's sudden, inexplicable introversion.

During those lazy afternoons spent cloud-watching with his best friend, he had often pondered the bond of each to the other. He is brilliant; he rationalized a thousand reasons as to why Chouji should be so attached to him. Loyalty and gratitude for having been the first to recognize his enormous heart and equally enormous potential comprised the majority of his earliest theories. But after Chouji told him about his battle with Jirobou, it became painfully clear that in Chouji's eyes, Shikamaru's recognition validated his worth – Chouji accepted that he had value because Shikamaru believed he did. His self-respect was entirely dependent on Shikamaru's good opinion.

Shikamaru has always known that such a state of affairs cannot be healthy. A true friend would have tried to change such a toxic relationship. He hasn't, and it's unforgivable that he hasn't, but the right course of action is a delicate one, with Chouji's self-image hanging in the balance with… but that didn't even bear thinking about. Only folly lay at the end of that train of thought, and Shikamaru pushes the thought away with the same cold, steely resolve which always meets that foolishness.

The truth of the matter is that Shikamaru depends just as heavily on Chouji, though his reliance on his friend is derived from more sinister things than poor self-esteem. Cursed with eyes that comprehend an eternity in a moment, eyes that witness near misses and close calls and brushes with fate that others fail to observe, eyes that see so many possible paths shrouded in potential suffering, Shikamaru perceives the dimming of the world more palpably by the day.

Konoha labors to brighten the darkness, and Shikamaru is bone-shiveringly grateful for it. He knows all too well how shadowed his heart has become in the aftermath of Asuma's death. In a less supportive, less benevolent village, a village more inclined to nurture his baser instincts, he had the potential to become something monstrous. Asuma had once warned him that genius and madness often walked hand-in-hand, and Shikamaru has been treading the border for months. Had he been born anywhere but Konoha, had anyone but Asuma been his instructor, and anyone but Chouji his best friend, he believes he would have toppled over the edge long ago. And so he is grateful for Konoha's dream of peace.

So many have tried and failed at the task Konoha has set for itself – but Naruto found the secret, found the miracle cure for a world that was killing itself, when he refused to seek vengeance on Pein. It is such a simple idea, the spreading of light, of forgiveness, of mercy and peace and kindness; it's really astounding that it took someone as undeniably, unabashedly foolish and foolhardy as Naruto to figure it out. Or maybe it just took someone so mulishly obstinate to actually follow through on such an idealistic dream. Shikamaru doesn't know, but he's glad for it. Glad to be part of it.

What Naruto had discovered, what everyone should have known somewhere in their soul, is that the only actions which have any hope of producing peace, mercy, and kindness are peace, mercy, and kindness. They are means as well as ends, self-fulfilling promises, for each act of benevolence is a flame in the darkness, and able to ignite other flames.

But if most people have candles with which to brighten the night, Chouji is a wildfire, a blazing sun, brightening the lives of each person he touches.

It's evident in the simplest things. It's in the menagerie of former stray animals that prowl the Akimichi lands. It's the glow that surrounds him every time he throws himself between his team and danger, the gentle warmth that shines as he plays at being a living jungle gym for the children in the village, a pastime discovered after Pein had destroyed their homes and playgrounds. And it shines brightest in the kindnesses most people wouldn't have thought to perform – such as freeing butterflies from spiders' webs.

Chouji doesn't know it, Shikamaru hadn't recognized it for years, but that moment defined what Naruto would call Shikamaru's way of the ninja. Chouji sees suffering in places most people would never think to look, and feels only pity. Never contempt for the sufferer. Never hate for those responsible – anger, sometimes, but never hate. And never does his anger outweigh his compassion. Eyes like Chouji's, that view everything through a lens of compassion, they are far, far more exceptional than Shikamaru's terrible powers of perception – and more precious, if less prized. The generous heart that never has to choose to do good, because it never seems to recognize doing nothing as an option, the heart that is always moved to avenge the mistreated, to comfort the sorrowing, to protect the weak, to give whatever it has to offer to fill the needs of others – Chouji's heart is even rarer and dearer than his eyes. His is a soul to which dark hearts must always be drawn, a roaring hearth staving off the cold callousness of reason and the blackness of despair.

Shikamaru's shadowed heart clings to Chouji's endless generosity and warmth and cheer and kindness like a moth to a streetlamp. It is hope for someone who knows very well how hopeless the world really is, someone who, in another life, probably would have dismissed the entire concept of hope as futile. Asuma had taught him that the only thing worth protecting was the future, but without hope in that future, the world Asuma envisioned could not come to pass. Shikamaru has never said it aloud and probably will never have the opportunity to do so, but the truth is that Chouji's heart is Shikamaru's Will of Fire – proof positive that the world Konoha is striving to build isn't an impossible dream, and therefore a reason to use his unlovely skills to further that dream. Nothing else could tempt the indolent savant out of bed every morning.

It isn't laziness that prevents Shikamaru from trying to mold Chouji's self-image into something more closely resembling the rare and precious person it represents. It's the knowledge that without Chouji, there is no point in anything. Fighting. Thinking. Breathing. Without him, there would be nothing worth believing in, and no faith to believe in it or motivation to fight for it if there were. As long as Chouji needs Shikamaru's acceptance and recognition, he'll stay close by, reminding Shikamaru that being alive is a good thing, staving off the madness clawing at the gates of his mind. Shikamaru is a selfish bastard, and he knows it – but he's a sane, non-suicidal, relatively productive selfish bastard. And one who is utterly terrified at what he might become without Chouji's cheer to brighten his dark thoughts, Chouji's compassion to temper his sometimes ruthless logic, Chouji's unconditional friendship to siphon him out of his reclusive nature.

Shikamaru groans and rolls over onto his stomach. The night he had stayed at Chouji's, the night Chouji had refused to let him leave, had granted him the first and last good sleep he'd had in ages. Even labored and uneasy, Chouji's breath had been as restful as ocean waves, reminding Shikamaru of brighter days, when Team Ten had been intact, sleeping side-by-side on their journeys. Ino had always found it surprising that Chouji didn't snore – he did, very gently, when he was deeply asleep and troubled about something. Asuma had been the chief culprit for nighttime rumblings, Shikamaru remembered ruefully. He almost smiled at the memory. His sensei had always been amused by the fact that Chouji, big, slow, and trusting as he was, should be the lightest sleeper of the team, while Shikamaru, after his hyperactive senses shut down enough to permit him slumber, could sleep through storms.

Those hyperactive senses ignite now; noises flicker along the hairs of his ears, shadows shiver on the wall, and before Ino even gains his window, he is sitting upright in his bed, waiting for her. Only Ino would come creeping into his bedroom in the middle of the night for no reason, usually when she dreamt badly and knew he wouldn't be sleeping either. Sometimes she comes to him and sometimes to Chouji, but it didn't matter - she never wants anything, never asks for anything except to not be sent away. She curls up on their floors with her own pillow and blanket, lulled to sleep by the comfort of a familiar breath, just as he had been not so long ago. Watching Ino steal into his window, waking up to her quiet breathing, these are common enough occurrences. Yet he is not prepared for what he sees tonight.

She's a mess – that she left her house in such a state fills him with as much foreboding as the tear tracks on her face, the panic in her eyes. Her hair is wild, falling down her back in windblown tangles, held back by a simple blue headband. She hasn't even bothered to dress; the pajamas she's wearing are too cool for the weather and not appropriate for visiting anybody, too low, too short, too… just too little altogether. Not what she would generally wear to sleep over with either of the boys. And she doesn't care.

She hangs on his window, too anxious to leave to even enter.

"Help me." She shakes with impatience and barely suppressed hysteria. Her usual grating voice scrapes lower in her throat, hoarse with the pressure of holding back tears. White fingers clutch his windowsill, pink lips tremble, and Shikamaru's heart begins to beat faster, spurred into overdrive by fear and adrenaline.

Shikamaru is shirtless, his shoes are somewhere downstairs – he doesn't bother retrieving them, but joins Ino at the window in silence. To his vast surprise Ino takes him by the hand; he slides out the window beside her, and they land noiselessly on the soft earth. Without speaking a word they take off in perfect synchronization, Shikamaru timing his footfalls to match the pace of her shorter legs. He does not know where they are going, and he doesn't ask, only clings to Ino's hand, following her footsteps as closely as a shadow.

She takes him through the village, past darkened windows and black, nearly invisible guards, and they must present a bizarre spectacle in their state of relative undress, but it doesn't matter, because he can hear the drum-drum-drumming of Ino's panicked heart, can hear the desperate hitch in her breath, can feel the power she is throwing into her sprint. As they pass the gates, one black shadow moves; Shikamaru flashes a nonchalant signal to it; it pauses, waiting for a confirmation, which he quickly signs. It returns to the wall. Shikamaru squeezes Ino's trembling hand.

They're going to the river, and that means Chouji, because Chouji loves the river. When they were little, they would swim together there, and Shikamaru still catches him looking at it wistfully, wishing Ino wouldn't tease him, wishing he weren't afraid of mocking eyes, wishing it didn't matter, like Shikamaru always tried to make him believe it didn't matter, wishing, wishing. But Chouji doesn't swim anymore. Won't visit hot springs. Won't use the public bath. And yet Shikamaru had somehow let Chouji convince him that those were insignificant things, and now he doesn't understand why – and why is he thinking about that anyway? Because Chouji ate almost nothing at dinner, because he refused barbeque, because he looked so goddamned small in his armor, when he's supposed to be as solid as a mountain?

Because Ino is taking him to the river and to Chouji, and because he knows the pain and the silence is derives from the same old hurts that prevent Chouji's undressing in front of anyone. And he really should have tried to break him of that, he should have been a better friend, but how could he, when –

But there he is, and Shikamaru's heart flies into his throat. Chouji is lying on his back on the bank of the river. It is his favorite place to train. Ino sometimes comes here to watch him, and Shikamaru will occasionally join her, when she insists. It's an incredible sight, when he is at the limit of his jutsus, and the trees are as bo staves in his massive hands. The rumbling of the earth as he tramples it is the rumbling of stampeding herds, the thundering of storms in the heavens, the power of an army in one single individual. It's terrifying, and exhilarating.

This is only frightening.

In seconds their sprinting eats the ground between them and him, and Ino relinquishes his hand and lands in a half-crouch beside their fallen teammate. "I didn't want to leave him," she whispers huskily, hands ranging over Chouji's body, seeking reassurance of his breath, his heartbeat, his being, "but I didn't know what else to do."

"What happened?" Shikamaru lands beside her, only marginally relieved by the rise and fall of Chouji's chest. The big body is otherwise utterly motionless, and that's worrying, because Chouji wakes at the slightest sounds, he always has. It's why he is so sluggish in the mornings, why he takes such a long time to wake up. But he doesn't stir as Ino's fingers reach to press his throat. Shikamaru's eyes linger on the white face, where lurid red swirls mar his cheeks, too bright against the unnaturally pale skin. Even in sleep he looks troubled, with an unhappy pinch between his brows. There's a cut along the left side of his jaw; Shikamaru only just refrains from reaching out with his unsanitized hands to wipe the blood away, unaccountably but ferociously angry at the sight of it.

He drops his gaze to avoid the blood, and sees that Chouji has been stripped of his armor. A quick glance askance reveals the heavy red cloth and the metal plates lying in a disorderly tumble to his side – Ino must have done it, Chouji is quite tidy by nature. Regardless, there is only a thin shirt clinging to his torso, drenched with sweat and more ominous stains. A band of darkness rings his belly; Shikamaru touches it and his fingers come away wet with blood.

"Fuck! What is… How did you find him? Why didn't you get help from the watch? What's – "

"I'll tell you everything I know, just… just give me a minute!" Ino's eyes are closed. Her voice breaks because her nerves are shattered, and Shikamaru knows what that feels like, so he bites his tongue while his brain surges with unanswered questions.

He is nearly shaking with impatience when she finally opens her eyes, but she does not disappoint. Her voice is clipped, quick, clear, and her narrative concise – a talent which had taken her years to master. Ino always wanted to embellish a story. "I went to Chouji's because I couldn't sleep, but I couldn't find him. I found blood in his bathroom and started to search. This is how I found him." A pink tongue darts out to wet her lips. "Shikamaru – he wasn't breathing when I got here."

Shikamaru's brain freezes mid-surge, and he looks down anxiously to double check that the powerful breast is still moving. Ino holds something out to him, something gory and clinking and terrible. "I started chest compressions… but…" Her voice scrapes like fingernails on slate as she grinds out, "Something was restricting the intake of air. I found this, fastened around his waist so tightly he couldn't breathe."

He turns the blood-covered thing over in his hands. "Torture?" His senses flicker out toward the woods, searching for enemies concealed in the shadows of the forest.

"Not… not like you're thinking. Shika – I think he did this to himself." She reaches down to Chouji's belly and gently pulls up his shirt. Shikamaru's blood runs cold in his veins. The black band in the shirt had been a ring of abraded skin, oozing blood and pus. Chouji's entire abdomen is a mass of ugly cuts and purplish bruises that disappear into the waist of his too-loose pants, some fresh, some fading, each a new wound in Shikamaru's soul. Chouji, who couldn't leave butterflies to suffer, whom no infant or child ever feared, despite his intimidating size, Chouji, who tried to fix everything – how could he deliberately injure himself? Shikamaru can't fathom it.

"He woke up. Tried to run." Tears slide down Ino's face. "I've never… he looked so afraid of me. I was afraid he'd hurt himself – I had to use a sleep jutsu just to make him be still."

Shikamaru traces one of the older, scabbed over cuts, and swallows vomit as the skin pulls apart, the healing flesh ripped open by some exertion or other. The bloody chain is in his other hand; he cringes, trying to imagine the purpose of such a cruel device.

Ino hand trembles, but she touches the cut that sickened Shikamaru. "I couldn't make him talk to me, but I was afraid to call the watch," she says, sounding thin and strained. A tear slides down her nose. "He would be taken for psych eval - something like this could ruin his career, and I couldn't… I couldn't…" She breaks her thought mid-sentence, swiping at the tears that are now streaming down her face. "This is my fault!"

The memory of the first time Chouji refused to swim in the river flashes through Shikamaru's brain; he closes his eyes, resting his hand on the lacerated belly. It's a punishment, Shikamaru realizes. Perhaps it had started as a way to fulfill his promise to Asuma, or to assuage Ino's fears, but it had become a punishment. Keeping his promises wasn't enough to placate his damaged self-image, even Shikamaru's friendship hadn't been enough, this time. He had needed penance, too, and had taken his pound, or pounds, of flesh, accordingly. Shikamaru understands the concept of self-abuse; he knows the sorts of thoughts that must have been simmering in Chouji's brain to have spawned this course of action.

But why in the hell hadn't he caught on to it? How had it come to this?

"It's not your fault." His voice is steady, he owes her that much. But he's shaking worse than she is. "It's mine. Fucking genius I am." His mind races ahead – Ino is right, although he wouldn't have had her forethought if he had been the one to find Chouji. He would have immediately located the proper authorities, obtained without hesitation the help Chouji obviously needed. And he would have destroyed Chouji's future as a shinobi, had he done it. The mental strains of their chosen profession are brutal – it would not be the first or the last time a nin of Konoha had been pulled from the front lines, unable to cope with the stress any longer. But if Chouji were to no longer be a shinobi, nor could Shikamaru, nor could Ino, he realizes suddenly. If he broke, his teammates would soon follow.

Watching Ino's remorse and fear glitter on her cheeks in the moonlight, he is certain of this. She has changed – her soul has bound itself inextricably to two people she once spurned, a bond forged by shared danger, joy , and pain. He doesn't know why he didn't understand this before tonight – the fear that has for so long overruled her judgment ought to have been evidence enough that she had somehow become entwined in the absurdly codependent relationship Shikamaru and Chouji have always shared. And it occurs to him that he must have unwittingly latched himself to her as well, because he doesn't resent her presence in this mess now. Heavens know he couldn't cope with it alone.

"Genius," he repeats bitterly. "I don't have a goddamned clue what to do."

White-faced and shivering, Ino looks frightened enough to pass out, but she presses her lips tightly together, and keeps her wide eyes fixed on Chouji's tortured body. "We're going to fix this," she says, and the strange, throbbing tone in her voice almost makes him believe her. "You and me. And if we can't, if… if we can't help him, then we'll get him to someone who can. The three of us are going to be okay again. One way or another. If it's the three of us, we can do anything." She looks up at him, and there's another kind of glitter in her eyes, resolve, or determination, or something in that vein. "We need to get him home, healed, fed, and rested. And we need to do it without interference from the watch or his parents – at least until we know better what we're dealing with. We need a plan, Shikamaru."

Shikamaru nods slowly, somewhat emboldened by her confidence. "It's no secret that what's left of Asuma's old genin team is a mess," he replies, righting Chouji's shirt with careful, gentle hands, thinking quickly. "I saw the two guards we passed – they were friends of Asuma's. They won't ask too many questions if we go back looking dead drunk, with Chouji passed out between us. As for everything else," he hesitates, but for the first time Ino's eyes are half-hopeful, and he sighs. "I'll… think of something."


	7. Chapter 7

Do it. Do it now.

_I can't…_

Now! Sit up, you fat freak!

_It hurts._

It should. Someone who drags their team down deserves to hurt.

_I don't want to drag them down._

Then sit up, fat ass.

_I can't! __The chain's too tight – my muscles can't contract enough, it's not my fault!_

The chain is more than twice the circumference of Shikamaru's waist. Three times as big as Ino's. It's not the chain's fault. It's plenty big enough. The problem is you. Do it.

_I can't!_

You can't because you're fat. You're a spineless, dithering, insatiable walking stomach. You're weak. You have no resolve. No will. You'd rather watch your friends suffer than miss a meal. You don't care enough about them to do a single fucking crunch.

_I care! __I care about them more than anything!_

Liar. If you cared, you would be stronger for them. Sit up. It's better if it hurts. It should hurt.

_It's impossible. __The chain is too tight._

It's too tight because you have to keep tightening it. Because you keep failing. Because you're weak and selfish. It should be cinched three more links already, but you can't make it fasten around all that blubber. You're pathetic.

_I haven't eaten in four days. __I ran all night instead of sleeping. __I'm trying._

Try harder.

_Chouji lies utterly still on the floor, as silent tears slip into his hair. __The night Shikamaru had slept in his bed, when he had begun his nightly runs through the chilly woods that shaded Konoha, his disgust with himself had taken a new form. __It never leaves him, now – it watches his struggles with contemptuous eyes, insulting his failures, challenging his excuses, shoving him brutally forward when he would fall back._

_It is a chili pepper Chouji, a skeletal Chouji, a Chouji whose skin barely stretches over his rangy bones. __A Chouji who has given everything, everything, everything, every spare ounce of will and flesh and chakra, for people he cared about. __Aside from __two flaming swirls on its cheeks, the face is unfamiliar, gaunt and drawn, but more unfamiliar is the loathing in its eyes, the repulsed twist of its thin mouth. __The emaciated torso and thin, knobby arms are bare; this figment of Chouji's imagination wears only a loose pair of pants, which hang to the middle of his stick-like calves. __Chili pepper Chouji crouches beside him, an angular figure, all razor-sharp bones and cruel, pointed eyes, glowering, hurling abuses one after other at his other self, who cannot complete even one crunch because the chain bites so painfully into his waist._

_If the face were not so unkind, the body would be the most beautiful thing Chouji has ever seen. __It is the very image of the selflessness Chouji strives after, the perfect control he lacks. __Chili pepper Chouji would never make Ino be afraid. __Never allow Shikamaru to wallow in his grief and misery. __He would never fail his team as Chouji has. __Chouji is ashamed to have such a beautiful thing in his mind – and grateful that it spurs him into cutting away the excess, the unneeded concern for himself, for his stomach, for his comfort, for his contentment. __Ino and Shikamaru matter. __His family matters. __Konoha matters. __Naruto's dream for a better, more peaceful world matters._

_Chouji doesn't matter; or rather, he's learning not to matter. __Every skipped meal is a promise to need less, to desire less, to take less, to be less. __The hunger is all but unbearable – but only because he cares that he's hungry, and he shouldn't, because he doesn't matter. __Every meter he runs, every squat, push-up, crunch, every kata, every jutsu is an oath to do more, to go further, to be stronger, to shape himself into someone better. __Someone selfless and strong who needs no one, yet on whom everyone can depend. __His muscles ache with overuse, and tremble with weakness – but pain is unimportant, because he is unimportant. _

_Every link in the chain that he gains, every kilo of flesh that is consumed by his unappeasable metabolism, is a part of himself he's been able to sacrifice. __A tiny step closer to being good enough. _

_Chouji pulls his stomach in as closely to his spine as he can manage, exhaling every possible molecule of air from his lungs, and tenses his abdomen to try the crunch again. __The skin beneath the chain is chafed, raw, bleeding in some places, and the metal digs ever more cruelly into his flesh as he pours his strength into the muscles beneath it. __Slowly, with the fire of tearing muscle beneath his chest, he forces his shoulders up off the ground. __He pauses before trying to raise his ribs, unable to breathe through the pain, unable to draw a breath anyway, for the constrictive chain around his stomach._

If you have time to think about how much it hurts_, __Chili pepper Chouji notes clinically, _think about Shikamaru, and how much he's hurting. And how you haven't done a damned thing to help him_. __Chouji stares at him, helpless, and pushes his way through the rest of crunch. __Pain makes his resolves waver, and the other Chouji scowls._

Don't you dare fall, you obese piece of shit. Do it properly. Slowly. You want to stronger for them? Do it right. _Spots appear before his eyes from the pain, but he maintains his form obediently as he lowers himself to the ground._

Disgusting. What kind of shinobi are you? Get up, fat ass. We're going to run through the night again.

_I need sleep._

You don't get to need anything, you greedy bastard. You haven't earned it. Get up.

_Chouji pushes himself painfully to his knees, kneeling before the crouching figure. __Chili pepper Chouji shifts to mirror his pose, and Chouji stares in naked longing at the ribs that ripple down his torso and the hollow, pale belly beneath them, the stark shadows below his clavicle, the sharp hips that jut out above his pants. __It's a shameful contrast to Chouji's gruesomely contused, engorged stomach._

You like this? _Chili pepper Chouji places slender hands over the taut muscles of his stomach, demonstrating the depth of his sunken belly compared to his protruding ribs. __Tears leak from Chouji's eyes__as he nods. _Go look in the mirror.

_Please…__ I don't want to…__ Don't make me._

Get in front of the fucking mirror, lard ass.

_Stumbling to his feet, Chouji makes his way across his bedroom, barely able to walk, let alone run. __The pain in his abused belly all runs together: hunger; sore and strained and herniated muscles; the ring of raw, pulpy, bleeding skin the chain has chafed away.__ He cannot draw a full breath – hasn't been able to for days now. __Staggering into the bathroom, he positions himself before the full length mirror there, shivering as chili pepper Chouji glides into place beside him. __The silent voice is almost tangible, stirring the hair near his ears as they view the hideous reflection._

What do you see, Chouji?

_Chouji starts to shake uncontrollably, and cannot answer the question._

You miserable, bloated coward. Do you not even have the courage to be honest in the privacy of your own bathroom? Look at your overfed, insignificant self. I'll tell you what I see. Repeat it.

Selfish.

"_Selfish," Chouji croaks._

Gluttonous.

"_G… gluttonous."_

Weak.

"_Weak."_

Useless.

"_Useless."_

_Chili pepper Chouji leans in closely. __Put your hands on your stomach. __He demonstrates, once again palming his hollow belly. __Chouji starts to cry, audibly now, but obeys blindly, flinching as his hands meet the sweaty, flabby flesh._

Fat.

_Chouji trembles, cowering away from the thin-faced phantasm. __"I'm… I'm big-boned… I have to… my jutsus…"_

Look at yourself, you pathetic parasite!

"_F…F…Fat…" __He can't stop shaking, and now the other Chouji shivers too, but with a menacing, ominous pleasure._

Now we're getting somewhere, fat ass. Cut it. _A kunai appears in the skeletal fingers._ Not too deep. There are people who would suffer if you messed up and ended your miserable existence, as hard as that is to believe. Just enough to hurt. Not enough to show.

_And it makes perfect sense. __It's the tumor, the single pernicious root to his many flaws. __His bottomless stomach, and his commitment to filling it, makes him selfish and greedy and useless and weak. __He's chosen satiating his appetite over the people he loves, time and time again. _

_How often had Shikamaru and Ino taken flak for being partnered off with the fat boy?__ How many odd looks had Shikamaru endured, for having formed a friendship with him? But he had not even attempted to change._

_How many times had Ino or Asuma chided him for being distracted by his growling stomach while on a mission, or reminded him that he might move a little faster if he dieted a little? __Too many to count. __And had he ever listened? __No. _

_And how many times had he __wished__–_

_Chouji snatches for his own kunai and lays the edge of the blade against his fattest swell of his stomach, below the chain, below his navel, and sinks the steel into the bulging flesh. __It burns like fire as it slides into the useless flab, biting and stinging as only cold steel can, and it's beautiful._

Chouji shivers into wakefulness, with the same, nauseated hunger that has plagued him for weeks. _Sleeping again. __Pathetic. __If you have time to sleep, why aren't you training?_

"Sorry," he mumbles, and tries to roll over, only to find he cannot move. Groggy, half-starved, and in pain, he doesn't understand.

Not until a gentle voice asks, "Sorry for what, Chouji?" And then he remembers. Ino. Ino was… Ino had…

Ino had seen everything. He wakened in the forest with Ino's lips pressed to his, as she forced air into his mouth, into his lungs. She took his armor and the chain as well, and she had seen everything; her face and his face were dripping with her tears. Ino had been weeping for him. Because of him. Because of her fat, useless, weak teammate, who couldn't even protect her from his own hurts, nevermind hers.

He had forced her away, too panicked to think beyond his immediate humiliation and guilt, deaf to her pleas to lie down, to be still, to let her help. He ran, or tried to; she was faster, and threw some jutsu at him that made him too tired to care anymore. As he sank to his knees, he noticed that her legs were very slim and white in her tiny little pajama bottoms, and the last thought in his head had been wonderment that her slender arms could catch and support someone like him.

And now he can't move, he can't even open his eyes, and that means Shikamaru is here, silent, watchful, and in control. Shikamaru knows.

Chouji can't breathe. His chest convulses as his pitiful body attempts to draw breath and expel it simultaneously.

"Let him go," Ino whispers urgently. She lowers herself to sit on the bed beside Chouji – and a bed meant he was home, they must have carried him – and the idea of his diminutive teammates wrestling his enormous self through the village agitates him so terribly that he can't breathe at all. "Shikamaru, he's hyperventilating, let him go!"

"No," Shikamaru replies, and a flood of what Chouji knows to be black shadow fills Chouji's mouth, rushing down his throat. It's as intangible as mist, but his gag reflex kicks in anyway, even after Shikamaru's shadow threads itself through his diaphragm and forces the spasms into slow, regular expansions and contractions that mirror Shikamaru's own careful breath. He feels Ino stretch over him. Her hands run steadily up and down his arms, with long, firm strokes that move in time to Shikamaru's breathing. They continue in this way for several long minutes, with Ino murmuring meaningless comfort and Shikamaru directing his breath. Tears well beneath eyelids that will not open, no matter how he struggles, and he cannot even turn his head to hide them.

Slowly Shikamaru's shadow slides back, out of Chouji's mouth. The frozenness in his face fades away; he can open his eyes and could probably speak, if he had anything worth saying, but his body remains rigidly pinned to the bed beneath Ino.

"Chouji." He flinches at the sound of his name, but Shikamaru's voice is passionless. "Don't move. I will bind you again if I have to. Just lie still." And then he is free, and despite Shikamaru's injunction, turns his head just enough to face the wall.

Ino shifts deftly into a cross-legged position, but she keeps one little hand on Chouji's shoulder. "Relax. We're together now, so everything's going to be okay. Just relax."

He keeps his tear-filled eyes on the wall.

Ino sighs at his unresponsiveness, and rubs his shoulder sympathetically. "I'm going to be at the hospital for a little while, running some tests and getting supplies, but I wanted to be here when you woke up. I've healed the worst of the cuts, but I couldn't get to them all. Not enough chakra. Shikamaru will stay with you while you shower and help you dress the remaining open wounds."

No, no, no, no, no. They should not be trying to take care of him. They're the ones in need of help, of support. He's dragging them down again, when he'd sworn he wouldn't burden them anymore.

"I… I'm fine, now," he mumbles. "You should both go home and get some sleep."

"Don't be stupid," Shikamaru answers coldly, and Chouji shrinks into himself, bracing himself against the unfamiliar chill.

"Be nice," Ino chides, "he's having a rougher time of it than you are." She doesn't bother lowering her voice as she leans over Chouji's ear and adds, "Don't mind him. You scared him. He'll come around."

Chouji has nothing to say, and so he simply stares at the bloodstained sheets. Ino squeezes his shoulder. "It's going to be okay, Chouji," she promises.

And without even a creak from the mattress, she's gone, vanished into the night like the gifted nin she is.

Chouji rubs his palms over his eyes, wiping at the tears, before attempting to rise– even injured and weak, even with the fire in his sore muscles, it seems so easy to move normally without the chain. But Shikamaru's shadow rushes over him, and before he can even begin to push himself upright, he's locked into place on his back.

"I told you not to move, Chouji. You're hurt." The shadow retreats, and the shadow user moves to the bedside. A thin hand with strong fingers grips his right arm, just above the elbow, and hauls him upright.

Shikamaru's eyes are more unreadable than ever when Chouji dares to glance at them. Barefoot and shirtless, he seems even smaller than usual, nearly as ascetically thin as chili pepper Chouji. Thinner than when Asuma was alive, much thinner. Wasted, almost. It's unbearable, the difference between them. Shikamaru carries his grief like a shield, protecting himself from further pain, the ever-present anguish a barrier between him and those of whom the loss could destroy him. Carrying that weight alone is using him up, wearing him down. And rather than alleviating some of that burden, Chouji has only added to it.

He is a terrible friend. Chili pepper Chouji, who has been silent and nearly invisible since Chouji's waking, nods a frank agreement from his perch on edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. It's all he can manage past the lump in his throat.

Shikamaru exhales sharply. "If only you weren't apologizing for the wrong things, Chouji." There's something familiar in his tone now, something he's heard once or twice before, and has never been able to identify. It's a dangerous sound, an empty sound, like an echo, like the intangible wind in cavern tunnels. There is nothing of his oldest, most precious friend in the black eyes; they are almost inhumanly blank, as expressionless as his voice.

Shikamaru raps the arm he's still holding with a gentle fist. "Let's go," he says, nodding in the direction of the bathroom. Swallowing the fear and bile rising in his throat, Chouji obeys, stumbling out of bed and toward the bathroom door. Shikamaru never releases his arm and never allows him to get his balance, pointedly forcing Chouji to lean on him all the way to the bathtub. A subtle shift in Shikamaru's stance nearly topples him; wordlessly Shikamaru lowers him to sit on the rim of the tub, demonstrating for the millionth time that he is far stronger than he appears, never faltering, even with the majority of Chouji's weight hanging gracelessly from his wrist.

Shikamaru finally lets go, but his hands immediately seek his pockets, and he leans against the wall. He makes no move to leave.

Chouji nods uncertainly; he doesn't understand why Shikamaru waits.

"Now." The black eyebrows lift sarcastically. "Unless you would rather have Ino stay with you? She wouldn't mind. She's barely left your side." There's that hallow note again, the empty sound.

Chouji's eyes grow wide with horror. "You don't… you don't mean that… you can't stay in here!"

"Your blood is still on the fucking floor – you don't really think I would leave you alone?"

"But!"

"I'm not going anywhere." He's frustrated, now. There's iron in his words, and Chouji cows away from him, terrified. "Strip. Shower. Or I will do it for you."

His mouth is dry, his heart pounds. "Shika…" He licks his lips, fear has crowded out his voice. "Shikamaru, I can't!" Unable to catch his breath, he must look every bit the pathetic, fat coward he knows himself to be.

Shikamaru stares at him for a long minute, then rolls on his shoulder toward the door, still leaning on the wall, leaving his back to Chouji. "Ten," he says grimly. "Nine. Eight."

"Please… please… Shikamaru!"

"Seven."

Chouji scrambles into the bathtub, ripping the shower curtain closed behind him. "Okay, okay! Just don't look!" Too terrified to do anything but obey, he tugs his clothes off, hastily folds them, and lays them on the edge of the vanity, careful that nothing but his arm leaves the dubious protection of the curtain.

With unsteady hands, he reaches for the faucet, hesitates, and then turns the heat up as high as he can stand it. It won't hurt him enough to show, but it stings the chafed flesh and sizzles in the open cuts on his belly like antiseptic, like a thousand needles in each wound. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. There isn't room for chili pepper Chouji in the shower with his fat self, but the thin face is firmly set in his mind, scowling terribly, a hateful rebuke in its narrowed eyes.

_Screwed up again, fatass. You'd think you would occasionally have to get _something _right, if only by accident. Now you've dragged your team into your bullshit – and didn't they have enough to deal with? Why the fuck should they be burdened with your failures, you fat bastard!_

Salty tears mingle with steaming water, and he reaches for the faucet again, twisting the handle until the water was hot enough to scald, hot enough to hurt him as badly on the outside as he hurts inwardly.

"Turn it down, Chouji," Shikamaru says wearily, his voice a breath from the shower curtain.

Chouji chokes on a sob, surprised, and curses his own foolishness in thinking Shikamaru would miss even this tiny, tiny gesture of self-revenge. His preternatural senses are attuned to Chouji's minutest actions now; there will be no evading the watchful black eyes, the small, sharp ears. Like the shadows he wields, Shikamaru will dog his every step, only too willing to assume the responsibility of protecting his weak, stupid friend from himself. But Shikamaru doesn't need that strain – he isn't suited for responsibility, it wears at him, stretches him thinly like an over-expanded balloon. One must be able to cope with failure to handle responsibility, and Shikamaru can't, Chouji has known this for years. After the fact, he can always rationalize a scenario in which he should have succeeded, and so he cannot forgive himself for failing to do so. He's fragile like that. Brilliant. But fragile.

Ino's just as breakable, because she's a perfectionist to her fingertips and the world isn't perfect, it's ugly and messy and screwed up like Chouji and he should have shielded her from it, and he hadn't, and now, now, now what? She should have had the perfect team, and Shika was close, but he was fat and useless, like she'd always reminded him when they were children, and even in trying to be less fat and useless he'd left blood and sweat and vomit in the sterile, perfect world he wanted for her.

And Chouji is afraid of his paradox. Although he cannot allow Shikamaru to fail, cannot further pollute Ino's strived-for perfection, he doesn't want Shikamaru to succeed, and he doesn't want to stop bleeding and sweating and vomiting. He needs the chain, the bloody kunai, and the hunger, the torn muscle and the breath that never satisfies. It's a penance for his own failures and an incentive to improve. Because even if Chouji's no better at dealing with failure than Shikamaru is, he would suffer failure a hundred thousand times rather than watch Shikamaru suffer. Because even if he'll never be perfect like Ino (slim and smart and popular and beautiful and good), he'll starve and sweat blood before he quits trying, for her sake, to be less imperfect.

But if the process of being better hurts them, how can he justify it? And if he can't justify it, how can he stop? The pain is an addiction, he's not completely stupid, but it's a counterintuitive relief from the endless, endless failures and imperfections that plague him. Proof that he can admit to his flaws, proof that he regrets them. Proof that he would gladly bleed to be rid of them. Proof that there's an honest desire to be good enough – and that desire is the only worthy thing about him.

Death flitters across his mind, and he shivers away from it. That would be too selfish, an escape that he doesn't deserve, and which can only leave more pain for Ino and Shikamaru. It isn't an option.

But he wishes it were.

He finishes his shower, swallowing sobs. He could scour the wounded skin with the washrag, but Shikamaru would know, so he gingerly cleans away the sweat and the blood from his skin, washes the dirt and oil from his thick, coarse hair. Brown and red water stream into the drain, leaving his body clean, but the stains on his soul are harder to scrub away.

Shikamaru had removed his soiled clothes, and had left a towel and fresh clothing on the vanity; he dries himself half-heartedly, as the steamy shower makes the exercise all but pointless. Giving up, he reaches for his clothes. There isn't a shirt, he notes with chagrin, but he pulls on his pants and belts them before pointing out the deficiency.

"Shikamaru…" he mumbles, embarrassed.

"Hnnn."

"Would… would you mind getting me a shirt?" He can feel the red heat of a flush creeping up his bared chest.

"No point," Shikamaru replies tonelessly, "you'll just get blood on it. You've got a dozen or more open wounds to treat. Get out. I'll do it."

Embarrassment bleeds away into panic. "No… no, I can do it." Please make him go away, Chouji begs of any god that might be listening. Please.

_He's going to look at you_, chili pepper Chouji mocks. _He's going to see how hideous you really are._

"I already told you: I'm not leaving you alone." Shikamaru snorts. "Get out of the tub."

He starts to shake. "Shika… Shikamaru… please, just, just let me…" Don't look at me, he pleads silently. Please, please, please don't look at me.

"Get out," Shikamaru says flatly, "or I'm coming in after you."

"But!"

Shikamaru snatches the shower curtain and drags it open. Humiliated, Chouji stares at his feet, hunched into himself like a hedgehog curled over its vulnerable underside. Red-honey hair, dark and heavy with water, drips steadily into the tub – plop, plop, plop, and Shikamaru stares and Chouji refuses to look up. For two solid minutes, neither moves or speaks.

"Goddammit, Chouji." Shikamaru's voice is low and rough when he finally breaks the silence, revealing more than frustration for the first time since Chouji had wakened. "I'm not going to fucking hurt you. Come on." Closing a hand around Chouji's wrist, he tugs gently, not fighting Chouji's rigid stance too hard. "Come on."

Chouji can't quite silence the sob that swells in his throat, which is almost as shameful as his bared, bloated stomach. Shikamaru squeezes his wrist. "It's okay,' he says quietly. "Don't cry. It's okay. Come on, now. Don't cry." He tugs again, and this time Chouji obeys, though his eyes remain fixed on the floor.

Shikamaru inhales deeply, the tension in his shoulders loosens – he is relieved, clearly, but Chouji doesn't understand why. "Okay," Shikamaru murmurs, half to himself. "Okay." He doesn't relinquish his hold on Chouji's wrist as he leads him back into his bedroom. Hooking a foot around one of the several floor pillows that litter the ground, he slides it back against the wall, and guides Chouji to it. Chouji sits without argument, preoccupied with keeping his tears at bay.

There is an open first aid kit on the floor; perhaps Ino had retrieved it earlier. Chouji doesn't care. He eyes it with a tight-chested panic as Shikamaru's kneels before him, collecting bandages, antiseptics, and antibiotic ointments with swift, deft hands.

"I can do it," Chouji whispers hoarsely, praying his voice doesn't sound as pitiful as it seems. One round ear twitches as Shikamaru clenches his jaw.

"No." Shikamaru lays the bandages in neat stacks to his left – Chouji's right – and then he curses, suddenly. He snatches one length of cloth and presses it against Chouji's stomach, where a thick glob of blood is sliding down the still-damp, purplish skin.

Chouji flinches violently – "For the love of… be still!" – and Shikamaru holds the bandage firmly against the bruised belly, causing the flesh to swell in unlovely –fatty, grotesque – bulges against his thin – bony, skeletal – fingers.

Chouji can't stifle the low, wretched cry that groans along the back of his throat, and Shikamaru glances up, anxious.

"I'm sorry!" Chouji is choking, sickened by the stark contrast of Shikamaru's reedy, willow-thin hands and his own misshapen corpulence. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he babbles endlessly, his breath an uncertain, grasping, sucking thing. Bewildered, Shikamaru presses Chouji's own hand against the bandage and takes him by the shoulders, close enough that their knees are touching, and Chouji shies back, whimpers, inconsolably ashamed.

"Chouj, Chouji, it's okay – alright? You don't need to apologize, not to me, not for anything. Okay? Chouji?" Shikamaru's voice is urgent, wavering drunkenly between desperation and command.

"You," Chouji moans, "you shouldn't! Not you. Shouldn't have to… shouldn't…" He can't breathe.

Shikamaru's eyes are black and fearful as the mind behind them gropes for understanding, for an appropriate response, for anything to stop the blubbering and the tears. He's no good at these spontaneous outbursts, Chouji knows, better than anyone; it's why women are such baffling creatures, why he prefers strategy to force, why Chouji, steadfast and steady, unchanging as the mountains on the horizon, is his best friend. But Chouji is falling apart.

Thin hands shake him, careful, but insistent. "Shouldn't what? Shouldn't what?" Shikamaru is pleading. "Talk to me!" This last is said with a peculiarly desperate note, one that breaks Chouji's heart to hear in Shikamaru's steady baritone.

_He doesn't deserve this._

"Shouldn't have to… to see…" He chokes on the words and covers his swollen abdomen with his arms. "Something so _repulsive_," he spits, hating himself, hating his malformed, nauseating body, hating his selfish, ugly soul, a soul so consumed with itself that he can't rouse himself to pretend, even for Shikamaru's sake, that he's okay.

But he can't. He can't gather himself: a mountain is only rock, and rock is only smashed-together bits of metal ores and glass and would-be gems, and he's been blasted by too many conflicting demands and needs, worn down like the inside of a cave, and that's how he feels, that's exactly how he feels, void and hollow, massive on the outside and empty within, and –

Shikamaru's mouth presses down on his, hard, violent and hungry, hungry as a starving man at a banquet, as parched earth soaking up rain. Thin fingers dig into Chouji's shoulder, Shikamaru's knee slides dangerously forward, between his thighs, even white incisors scrape roughly against his lower lip. Shikamaru scarcely releases it before diving back in, to probe more deeply, tasting the depths below his tongue, the backs of his teeth, the roof of his mouth, savoring, biting, pressing, pulling, sucking, licking, _searching_.

Hesitantly, almost reverently, terrified, Chouji presses back against Shikamaru's demanding tongue, trying inexpertly to answer a question he couldn't put words to if his very life depended on it.

Shikamaru pulls away, as if he is the one bitten, and slipping one narrow hand behind Chouji's neck, roughly draws him forward so that his lips are at Chouji's ear. Hoarsely, bitterly, "I have never, never found you to be in any way _repulsive_. More's the pity."


	8. Chapter 8

His electrolytes are skewed, enough that Ino is nervously toying with a bag of transparent fluid as she waits for the last test (complete blood count) to finish up. He is anemic – iron deficiency. She had expected that. She'll pump him full of antibiotics to ward off infection and force feed him every nutrient-rich fruit and vegetable she can lay her fingers on, but the situation is hardly dire. The hernias worry her most, now, partially because she doubts that she can repair them all without surgery. The majority of them are reducible. Getting the displaced tissue back into place will be uncomfortable, painful, even, but a few minutes work of her fingers and a quick burst of chakra to seal the torn muscle will do the job. But the others? She's competent; she could do it, if she had to. She could slide the scalpel low on his belly, slice into the already gruesomely bruised flesh, and worm his protruded intestines back inside the abdominal wall, where they belong. That double-damned chain had really done a number on him.

He'd lost more weight than anyone had realized, she saw that the moment she had removed his armor. Chouji's own big frame and heavy muscles, coupled with the disfigurement caused by that hateful, gore-spattered chain, had filled out his clothing deceitfully well. Easily twenty kilos of flesh, she figures, gone in less than a month. She had hounded him to lose thirty. And by every star in the fucking sky, he had tried.

Ino bites her fist to hold back an infuriated scream. _That's not what I meant_, she rages silently. How could he possibly have thought this is what she wanted?

No more, she swears, gnawing on what is already a pinkly raw knuckle, until she tastes the salty tang of her own blood. Not another gram. Not unless and until it doesn't matter anymore. She hasn't told Shikamaru yet, because she hopes she's wrong, but she doubts that Chouji's new relationship with food is going to be short-lived. Eating the few bites he had forced down at his mother's table brought such terrible self-loathing and fear into his eyes, that while Ino hesitates to label his problems with her limited psych training, it damn sure _looks_ like anorexia nervosa. Too little food, too much exercise, and self-harm – which is all often anorexia's ugly kid sister – _plus_ the malnutrition her tests indicate?

She's not equipped to deal with it; Shikamaru is less so.

An anorexic Akimichi. Gods help her. Maybe she's the crazy one for even thinking it.

But twenty kilos? In a month? He'd done more than to work himself nearly to death and forgo food – he had to have done. Those who suffer from anorexia rid themselves of food in whatever way they're able; Ino reasons that Chouji has been slipping spinach pills from the Akimichi armory. The fat-to-chakra conversion is slow compared to the higher grades of the clan's soldier pills, but for what he needed, spinach pills were perfect, especially if he was cutting the pills into smaller doses. An easy way to cause untraceable pain and burn extra calories.

Shikamaru hadn't noticed, there in the black wood, and probably still hasn't noticed. He would see Chouji's injuries and pain-filled eyes long before he ever recognized the six or seven missing kilos the chain's distortion had concealed. Shikamaru had seen beyond Chouji's chubby exterior from the beginning, seen something Ino had taken years and years to perceive, and no time at all to love.

Ino's knees give out, and she sinks to the floor, overwhelmed with emotions so tumbled together she can barely identify them. Her notes scatter, the bag of electrolyte replacement fluid slaps ominously on the floor, but does not break; she gathers them mechanically . It could have been so much worse, and if she had been able to fall asleep in her own bed, it would have been. Even then, if she had gone to Shikamaru's instead, or toughed it out for an hour longer, she would have been too late. Unconscious and not breathing – he could have only collapsed mere moments before she reached his side. Finding Chouji before he could… before he…

Neji would call it fate. Sakura might blame her family techniques, insisting that she had felt something of Chouji's state of mind. Everyone else would congratulate her on her luck – everyone except her team. Shikamaru would shrug, not willing to waste his energy pondering the implications, and Chouji would take his cue and decide it wasn't worth thinking about.

Ino, for her part, can't stop thinking about it. If she had felt anything more than the shivery foreboding that she always feels around her crumbling team, she can't remember it now. She had been worried about Chouji, but she is _always_worried about Chouji – she hadn't been compelled to check on him in the night. She simply couldn't sleep. Her teammates are comforting, albeit in different ways, and she had sought only slumber.

Shikamaru bears her nighttime intrusions with surprising grace, when he isn't already asleep. Like a cat, he is neither especially welcoming nor friendly, but he isn't willing to bother himself about her presence, either. He never says a word, and she doesn't either; they share a look in which she asks and he concedes, and that was all. Shikamaru rolls over and falls asleep. She lies on the floor and does the same. If he wakes first, he shakes her so that she can get back to her own bed before her father notices her absence, but he never speaks. And that's okay. Her bad dreams and her fears and her worries are annoying and troublesome – but he understands.

Chouji doesn't speak often, but he listens like a teddy bear. No matter how cautiously she moved, Chouji hears her. He sleeps easily, without nightmares, without dark thoughts keeping him awake, but he also sleeps lightly. By the time she slides his window open, he is already sitting upright in bed. Sometimes she talks for hours, and sometimes she says nothing at all; regardless, he always makes a pallet up for her before he lets her sleep, and he always wishes her pleasant dreams. As if words could ward off nightmares, Ino never suffers bad dreams at Chouji's.

She closes her reassembled notes, thinking that she will dream badly for weeks to come, no matter where she sleeps. Chouji's body had been a study in masochism, deprived of nutrition and sleep, strained past the breaking point, and covered in injuries meant to elicit pain without incapacitating their victim. Ino folds her arms tightly around her waist, thinking of his shredded belly. How had she ever been fooled by the façade of indignation he'd always thrown up against the heartless teasing, criticism, and overt disgust? Chouji didn't get angry, not over insults. It had never been anything but a defense mechanism, a goofy face to mask the hurt, a way to make people laugh at something other than his imperfect body. Somehow, it had been less painful to be ridiculed as fool for his false denials than for something about which he was genuinely insecure. And she fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. Everyone had.

No. That isn't true, she remembers. The bittersweet truth stings, and tears burn her eyes. Not everyone. Not Shikamaru, who has always been so stubbornly defensive, who never laughed when Chouji went on one of his rampages, who has always insisted to Ino, to Chouji, to Asuma, to anyone who said otherwise, that Chouji was fine just as he was. Whether or not he in anyway shares Asuma or Ino's concerns about his friend is anyone's guess. Unlike Ino, he has no ability whatsoever to feign what he does not feel, but he can close up his face like a day lily at midnight, as inscrutable and emotionless as a statue. And he has been utterly unreadable since she brought him to Chouji in the woods.

Unreadable to anyone who didn't know the truth, at any rate. But Ino does know, and she also knows that the words that have been imprisoned behind the backs of Shikamaru's teeth for the past three years are dangerously close to breaking through.

Of course, he doesn't _know_that she knows. He hadn't meant for his conversation with Asuma to be overheard. And truthfully, she hadn't meant to pry. But secrets just don't stay secrets long around the Yamanaka, and that isn't her fault. Trying a new jutsu the same day Shikamaru had sought Asuma's advice about his uncomfortable predicament was only an accident. Unless it was luck. Or fate. Or her own sensitive mind, open to the possibilities.

_"Not really," Shikamaru explains, a furrow between his brows, a crimson flush across his smooth cheeks. "Not really girls, either, though – just…"_

_"Just Chouji," Asuma finishes, and Shikamaru nodded, hunching his shoulders a bit, digging anxious hands into his pockets._

_"If you feel that way, don't you think he should know?"_

_Ino has heard enough to know that this conversation is private – but it's their own damn fault, for talking about such things so close to the village. Besides which, well, it's just sweet, isn't it? She's only a teenage girl – she can't be expected to just close her ears to a confession of love, even if it's not hers. She grins mentally – having transferred her mind to a bird's for the first time, she could hardly produce a physical smile with the raven's jutting beak. At any rate, she's decided. She's staying._

_Shikamaru is fidgety, but Asuma's stable presence reassures him, and he drops into his trademark, pensive crouch. Asuma's collected, unruffled manner made talking to him about anything so much less gauche than it could be. Ino's first menstrual cycle, for example, had begun halfway through a three-week long B-rank, without a friendly female face in sight. He'd left them at an inn in a roadside village, without a word of explanation to either of her clueless teammates. Upon returning, he sent the boys to get lunch, and presented Ino with extra undergarments and a variety of products. He spent next quarter of an hour very ably answering what ought to have been desperately awkward questions – Ino will never forget his kindness in her mortification. As he rests easily on a tree, listening to Shikamaru spill his deepest, darkest secret, Ino thinks her teacher will make a great father someday._

_But Shikamaru eyes are darkening with regret, and Ino leaves off her reverie. "I can't tell him."_

_"Is this something you can keep a secret?" Asuma asks, subtly steering the conversation with a question other than the obvious, "why?" It's a useful skill, and one Ino is slowly learning to imitate. But it doesn't serve much purpose here, with the taciturn Shikamaru; he only nods solemnly, resignedly._

_"He wouldn't hold it against you," Asuma says gently. "You know that. Besides which, sometimes you have to know someone is interested in you to entertain the possibility of returning their affection. Kurenai was like that. She wouldn't have looked twice at me if I hadn't gone after her."_

_Shikamaru snorts with all the exasperation a gangly, irritable, too-smart-for-his-own-good teenager can muster. "If I told Chouji to jump off a cliff, or cut off a finger, do you think he would do it?"_

_That surprises Asuma a little, but the wide eyes quickly narrow in a commiserating kind of understanding. "Without question."_

_"And if I told him I… felt that way about him…" Shikamaru draws his knees up unhappily. "I don't know if… how far that kind of loyalty goes. Maybe not that far. In which case, if he doesn't have… if he doesn't…" Feelings are an embarrassing topic for the normally steady teen; he presses his lips together tightly. "Our friendship would never be the same again, if he turned me down. And if he didn't turn me down, I couldn't ever be certain I hadn't influenced him into making a choice he wouldn't have otherwise made. If it's a choice at all. I don't know."_

_"I sincerely doubt Chouji would try to manufacture feelings he didn't have, even for you," Asuma offers quietly. Ino finds herself nodding along, and forces herself to stop – nodding birds would be a dead giveaway, in a real combat situation._

_"Maybe not, but not being able to give me something I wanted would break his heart." Shikamaru groans helplessly and puts his face in his hands.__  
__  
__Asuma can't deny that, so he watches Shikamaru carefully, considering._

_"I hate not knowing!" Shikamaru bursts out finally. "I can't… predict it. Don't know how it is for him, or how it might be, or how he'd react."_

_Asuma looks casually upward, and meets the raven's eyes. Ino sighs – she's been caught. But Asuma, surprisingly, doesn't give her away. "I seem to recall that you have a teammate who's pretty good at sniffing out secrets. Maybe she could –"_

_Shikamaru looks horrified, much to Ino's disgust. "But she can't _keep_ secrets. She's the last person on earth I'd want talking to Chouji about… any of this."_

_Ino crows, angrily, and Asuma glances back at her, a flash of a warning in his eyes, before fixing his gaze on Shikamaru's head, now bowed in thought._

_Shikamaru shakes his head, looking at the ground. "It probably doesn't matter, anyway," he says softly, almost to himself. "The stakes are too high. I'd have to bet our friendship, and I can't do that."_

_The laughter lines fade around Asuma's eyes. "I know how you feel about risks, Shikamaru-kun. But if you're not careful, your fear of losing something important is going to keep you from taking chances that need to be taken. Risk can't be the only deciding factor in the choices you make. You also have to consider what can be gained. Part of strategy – the hardest part – is knowing when to make a calculated gamble, and accepting the fact that, sometimes, you're just going to lose, Shikamaru-kun."_

_"What if this is one of those times?" Shikamaru looks at his teacher, helpless, asking if Asuma genuinely believes he should chance his familiar, cherished friendship for the completely unknown territory into which a wrong – or right – step could carry him._

_But Asuma shakes his head. "It isn't, not yet, anyway. You're both very young, and Chouji is still very innocent. A lot can happen in the next few years. But you should keep this in mind: If he has or develops feelings for you, he won't even consider taking this risk. He can't. He doesn't think he even deserves your friendship, so he would never –"_

_"He said that?" Shikamaru looks glum, and Ino, changeable as the wind, coos sympathetically, her outrage quashed by his obvious unhappiness._

_"In so many words." Asuma shrugged. "Maybe that too, will change in time. But if he doesn't feel that he's worthy of your friendship, he won't pursue anything further, he doesn't dare. Someday, that choice is going to be yours, and yours only. You have to be the one to make that move."_

_"But I can't, I just said that!"_

_"Then neither one of you makes a move, and you gain nothing."_

_"And lose nothing."_

_Again Asuma shakes his head. "But you do lose something, Shikamaru-kun. You lose potentiality. Many pass up the road to greatness to walk a safer path."_

_"Not as many as chase after their dreams, and wind up losing not only the dream, but everything they already had," Shikamaru counters cynically._

_"You'd be surprised." Asuma laughs. He reaches out to rub Shikamaru's head affectionately. "Be patient, but don't let fear immobilize you. Trust yourself, trust your friends – I mean Ino, too. I wish I had better advice, kid, but that's all I've got for you."__  
_  
Ino's face is wet with tears again tonight, as she lingers over the secret memory. Asuma had been a little older than some of his fellow jounin instructors, and had dealt with his fragile team as warmly as any father. Compared to the quietly simmering, sexy Kurenai, the lackadaisical, careless Kakashi, the ridiculous Gai – they had been lucky, damned lucky, to have Asuma. Perhaps she is discriminating too strongly, but she feels now, with all her soul, that none of the other teams could lose what Team Asuma has lost. Jiraiya and Naruto had been that close, perhaps; Rock Lee and Gai definitely were. But no one else could even guess at how deeply Asuma's death has injured them.

Despite Asuma's confidence in her, she has never felt skilled or brave enough to probe Chouji's heart with casual questions and observations meant to provoke a response. She would never have slipped into his head uninvited, Asuma hadn't intended that, anyway, that broke all sorts of personal codes for her. What she knows is that in some ways Chouji remains as innocent as a child – he has never given the slightest indication that he even acknowledged the differences between girl-people and boy-people, let alone a preference. Shikamaru waits patiently, despairing, and Ino secretly watches them both, hoping for a crack in the impasse.

Alone, in the safe sterility of the hospital laboratory – abandoned, now, save one soul-searching kunoichi – it's almost laughably easy to pinpoint the source of her fears. Or maybe her fears had wakened it, she doesn't know, and it doesn't matter, now. Until the prospect of life without them presented itself, she probably could have denied it indefinitely.

But Ino adapts. The situation has changed – she can accept that and move on into the very interesting possibilities that are forming in her pretty blond head. Chouji… Chouji is malleable. Pliable. Eager to please. He will follow along behind his team, she thinks, even into the strange waters where her heart has stumbled. It's Shikamaru who will be, to borrow his phrase, troublesome.

Shikamaru is an exceptional thinker. That's no secret. Ino openly jokes that he developed his mental prowess simply because it was the only skill that required no physical effort to perfect, but she understands better than anyone her teammate's genius. What is not commonly known is that his deductive prowess has its downside, and that is his inability to react quickly to the unexpected. He needs to think his way through new developments, surprises to which most people would respond intuitively, instantly. Few know it, because his team inevitably covers for him during that vital moment of adjustment.

Given five seconds, Shikamaru could scrape out of most tight places, given ten he could do so brilliantly, but sudden dangers always prompt the same response from his teammates. _Get to Shikamaru. _Chouji leaps behind him, and Ino flanks him on whichever side seems more vulnerable – he's good enough in close combat to manage anything coming at him head-on. Protecting Shikamaru during those few seconds it takes him to adjust to a new situation is a small price to pay for the number of times his phenomenal brain has covered their inadequacies. And it's part of why their teamwork is so exceptional – everyone's flaws are neatly covered by the others' gifts.

Of the three of them, Ino adapts most quickly to new information. If Shikamaru were any less than brilliant, she knows she would have been the leader of their little group, precisely for this talent. Shikamaru needs to work through points B and C to get to D; she can bypass them altogether, leaping naturally to point D. Admittedly, her point D is usually in a less advantageous position than Shikamaru's – but she can get there faster. Chouji's role rarely changes, so unless he's specifically ordered to so, he generally stays right in the thick of a fight, leaving the manipulation of the battle to those with more finesse.

But things are changing now, so quickly that even Ino can scarcely keep up, and Chouji is the unwitting instigator. The complete blood test is still running; the machine whirs softly, white noise to sooth the jangling complaints of her heart. It had been like a bolt of lightning, there in the cool night, and she still trembles in the aftershock.

_The big shinobi lies absolutely still, without even the breath of life to stir the air around him; she lost her own breath upon sighting him on the forest floor. She tears her knees on the twigs and gravel, sliding into position at his side, and lays an ear on the motionless chest. Tears of relief sting her eyes at the faint drumming of his heart, and she finds her breath again, enough to cover the slack mouth with hers and force a quick burst of air into the breathless lungs._

_The warmth that spreads from somewhere deep within takes her completely off-guard – but, Ino adapts. So as Surprise morphs all but instantaneously into Curiosity, and she pushes another lungful of air into him, she also traces his lower lip with an inquisitive, firm tongue, bemused by the full softness of it. The warmth spreads, making parts of her tingle with pleasure, parts which have no business tingling without some forewarning, and certainly not now. Not in the cold, black woods, with an unconscious teammate who's always been just-a-friend, someone for whom she had never felt the least... but that wasn't true, if she was honest, because those massive hands hunting her in the trees, those earth-shaking jutsus that reverberated in her chest… she was, she was attracted to… to… to someone who wasn't breathing, God-dammit!_

_To Chouji. She flushes, suddenly angry and not a little ashamed. More important things than tingles, she scolds herself. She apologizes silently, penitent, and covers his mouth again. Despite her remorse, she finds herself in the midst of another half of a kiss. _

_But he won't breathe. Ino blows harder into the empty mouth. This time, his lungs fail to inflate correctly; they cannot take the full breath she has given. Frowning, she tries a second time, again air slips out of their joined mouths, inexplicably unable to fill his reluctant body. Something is wrong._

After finding the chain, Ino had been too concerned with the urgency of Chouji's injuries to pursue the very strange sensations his sweet, soft mouth had produced in her. Her mind had shifted from a stunned acknowledgment of carnal arousal to heart-pounding, throat-tightening fear in the space of about three seconds – but Ino adapts. She promised herself leave to explore those feelings later, and, putting her still tingly parts out of her head (of which her mouth was the least interesting), set to work examining her damaged teammate and feverishly considering her next move.

But the next step led the bewildered girl to right into another epiphany. While guiding Shikamaru through the night-shrouded streets of Konoha, through Yamato's rows and rows of identical wooden shops, past the newly rebuilt Akimichi compound, the tingly feeling struck her again – lightning in the same place twice, as it were. In the fearful insanity of the moment, the uncertainty of the future, and the pain that lay behind them, there was an immense pleasure in the unwavering pressure of her partner's calloused, thin hand. She was not alone. She and the boy she had secretly kissed were not alone. The tough, supple fingers were cold, but their grip had been sure, so much stronger than anyone would suspect, and despite his cat-like, seeming indifference to her, he hadn't let her go. He clung to her just as tightly as she clung to him, even as they raced for their third partner.

She trusted them, those knobby-knuckled, bony hands, nails grown a bit too long because he's too lazy to cut them, cracked because he hates the feel of oil and lotion, scarred by slips of kunai and Asuma's wind-chakra blades. Perhaps she has been over-thinking triangles, but in her empty palm, she could all but feel the engulfing warmth of Chouji's giant hand - blunt, clumsy, but ever so gentle. As she and Shikamaru ran hand-in-hand through the darkness, as the forefront of her brain raced through every scrap of information she had on treatments for lacerations and hernias, eating disorders, and self-mutilation, at the back of her mind, a powerful anger simmered, a deliciously jealous outrage. How dared he injure someone so important to her? How dared either of them fail to care for themselves properly?

The foibles and self-destructive behaviors of others who are precious to her – they don't provoke her so. She does not meddle in their lives with the same protective ferocity with which she worries her teammates. She is almost embarrassed to have missed such an obvious thing - her fears had always had a jealous element to them, and isn't jealousy a simple, crude form of love? Desire at its most fundamental?

All that had been missing was this, this sense of touch, to rouse in her body the same magnetic pull that her mind and heart knew so well. It's unorthodox, she knows - she pulls the last test results, and breathes a sigh of relief – but she cannot help but be deeply satisfied with this dual attraction, deeply satisfied with the concept of a triangle.

Because they couldn't be separated, Shikamaru and Chouji. Cutting one out with the team-splitting sword of romance – it was unthinkable, especially given that Shikamaru already… Well. That _is_ troublesome, but Ino adapts.

As earnestly as she has ever wished for Chouji to return Shikamaru's feelings, she _hopes_, in the wee hours of the morning, that perhaps Shikamaru is more flexible than he realizes. He's Looked at her before, lingered on her breasts and hips, like any straight guy, probably without even knowing he had done it – like tonight, when he had Noticed her new pajamas.

She _hopes_ that maybe Chouji has never shown a preference because he doesn't have one. That somehow, they can stay Ino-Shika-Cho forever, and keep the sacred place inside their triangular formation protected, pure, and utterly unsullied by those others.

Those others, who don't know the real Team Asuma. Who don't know that brilliant, aloof Shikamaru can be petty and childish and bleak and frighteningly breakable. Or that simple, fat Chouji can be as deeply profound as he is gentle, and, in his own way, as fragile as Shikamaru. Or that even though Ino is physically the weakest shinobi in their chain, she is nonetheless stronger than either one of her boys.

She isn't as smart as Shikamaru, or as kind as Chouji, but unlike either, she likes herself, for the most part. Her best is good enough. That healthy self-perspective is something neither of teammates has ever possessed, but it's something she wants to teach them. Yes, she's a little arrogant – but she can admit when she's wrong. Yes, she's a little vain – but she feels good when she looks good, and she deserves to feel good about herself. She's demanding and ruthless with her team – but they deserve to be at their best, even if they don't have the drive to get there. They deserve – they need – the self-respect they lack.

And for that, they need her, the one who best knows the absurd discrepancies between their true values and their perceived self-worth. Shikamaru needs her to drag him out of that black shell into which he crawls, that isolated prison he's somehow convinced himself he needs, to protect himself from all the things he could still lose. Chouji needs her to build up his self-esteem, now more than ever, to make him understand that his value can't be measured in kilos. She's done a poor job of it, so far. But whatever happens, whosever heart breaks, Shikamaru's or hers or both, she will do better. She will, she promises. She loves them. Whether or not they can return her feelings is painful to consider, but ultimately beside the point.

There is a part of her that remembers valuing fortune and beauty and status, something in her head that recollects stories of fabulously wealthy princesses and the charming, dashing princes that courted them. It is a vague, unfeeling dream, next to the very real ache in her gut, the longing to not be apart from the two very imperfect people that make up the surviving members of her team, the wrenching fear that she could lose them, not to death, not to violence, but to someone else. Or to each other. This bizarre, perfectly coordinated organism they have become, symbiotically bound to each other, none complete or functional without the others – it has such _potential_, to paraphrase her teacher.

She misses Asuma. She would have gone to him with this new discovery in herself, and he would have walked her through it as sensitively, as unhurriedly, as calmly, as he had guided her first steps into womanhood and Shikamaru's probing of his more-than-friends feelings toward Chouji. Asuma could have made it less hopeless, somehow, to love your teammates, one of whom is in love with the other team member, and one whose romantic attachments – if he has them – remain regrettably unknown.

Maybe it's a long shot. But she isn't Shikamaru. She'll risk confession, because the truly self-aware know that happiness is only what you make it. If the boys aren't up to jumping into a three-way relationship, she'll live. Getting over the awkwardness may take a little time, but she's up to that challenge. Repairing her heart may take even longer. But Ino is bright, beautiful, perfectly charming when she wants to be, bold, fierce, and loyal to the end. Someone will appreciate that, someday. And she'll learn to love someone else, too, if happily ever after doesn't begin and end with Ino-Shika-Cho. And that's why she's the strongest – she can be enough for herself. If she has to be.

But, oh! The possibilities. She's getting tingly again, remembering the solid grip of Shikamaru's hand, the warm softness of Chouji's mouth. And Asuma's last admonition, to take care of her two idiots, is ringing in her ears, full of new meaning.

Ino pushes hair out of her face, wishing she could clean up before she goes back to Chouji's, could be soft and bright-eyed and dewy-skinned and feminine, and – how funny – cute. She has never worried about that with those two before. She can't, of course; they need her right now, to insert an IV and wrap a medical sarashi around Chouji's injured abdomen, to make him eat (because Shikamaru can't be ruthless enough to force him), to make him understand that he isn't going to be permitted to hurt himself anymore (because Shikamaru can't find the words to express it).

But… surely, Chouji has a hairbrush somewhere.


	9. Chapter 9

I wanted to take a chance to thank everyone who has followed this story. It's provided no end of entertainment for me, but the greatest pleasure has been your support and your kind words. If you were surprised at Shikamaru... well, so was I. Honest to God, I didn't know he was in love with Chouji until he kissed him, either. But as soon as I had the words on the screen, it felt right, and I ran with it. And then Ino's heart became clear to me, too; it would have been unimaginably cruel to cut her out just as she was discovering how much her screwball teammates meant to her. Hope I didn't disappoint anybody. I truly did not intend for this to be a romance of any kind. And that's enough from me.

* * *

Shikamaru's hand drops to his side. Eyes unfocused, heart pounding, he backs slowly away from the unforgivable thing he's done, stomach lurching as everything, absolutely fucking everything, falls to pieces. Trembling hands push him up from the floor. His legs threaten to fold beneath him, to pitch him mercilessly into the lap of the beloved friend he's just assaulted. He can't breathe. He can scarcely move; the weight of his transgression is crushing.

Just enough of Chouji is visible in his periphery so that he can tell his dearest friend is shivering uncontrollably. Shikamaru shudders, and takes one slow, faltering step back from the pillow, from the wall, from Chouji's bare feet. Of course he's shivering. Chouji trusted him, and Shikamaru had forced himself on him like an overzealous whore, violated the most sacred bond he had ever formed, and crossed a line that could never be redrawn.

And yet, what else could he have done? Chouji's eyes bleed self-loathing, but he has never been more appealing. His smooth skin, all but hairless save the reddish-gold mane that curls damply around his ears, is slick and wet. He smells of soap and tears and freshly laundered clothes, free of the stench of whatever it is that makes men mercenary and brutish and mean. And though it makes no difference whatsoever to Shikamaru's heart, though his mind rebukes him for it, his body is undeniably appreciative of the changes in Chouji's physique. The tortured belly swells gently out from his ribs, still full and round, but the length of his torso is noticeably narrower. For the first time since that god-awful pepper pill, his shoulders are broader than his waist, displaying his powerful arms and chest to their full advantage. The blades of his shoulders move distractingly beneath the heavy, more clearly defined muscles of his back. It is maddening.

Shikamaru had almost lost his control there in the shower. It had taken several minutes to gather the resolve to touch him without mauling him, to remind himself that Chouji was badly injured, that there were more important things to be dealt with than his own overwhelming needs.

But with all his masks down, Chouji was defenseless. The charade of indignant outrage that covered the hurt inflicted by people who really ought to know better, gone. The self-assured grin he wore when he was pretending the blows he'd taken for someone else didn't hurt. Gone. That indescribably sincere, adorably lopsided smile he donned when he needed to conceal the fact that he suffered, and wanted, and needed just like anybody else. All gone. And in their place, just a sweet kid who saved butterflies after being rejected himself, and who honestly didn't know whether he deserved the space he took up in the universe. A kind-hearted boy with hair like the golden glow of an autumn day and strong hands that were forever giving.

And he thought the person he trusted most in the world, his best friend, should be disgusted by his bared body. Just what the hell else was Shikamaru supposed to have done?

But there must have been something. Something he could have done to relieve Chouji's pain without pouncing on his vulnerability. He just hadn't had the presence of mind to look for it. Son of a bitch. And now he's ruined everything.

He takes another step toward the window. Beyond is an empty night in which to drown himself and bury the emotions that have betrayed him, to devise some brilliant stratagem by which to salvage this mess. Bright crimson blood wells and spills down Chouji's round belly, but he cannot bind those injuries now, not after such a violation. Chouji is too kind to ask him to leave, but he must be desperate for his assailant to go, for the awkwardness to subside, he _must _be. Shikamaru's nerves scream to comply. Another painful step – except he can't pick his foot up.

A powerful hand has encircled his ankle, a loose but unyielding manacle of flesh and bone. "Don't," Chouji whispers, his shaggy head bowed.

Shikamaru blinks back tears. Fuck. Was he really going to cry about this? He'd been half-prepared for this for three years.

"I'm so sorry, Chouji. I'm so fucking sorry." The words burn as they scrape past the ache in his throat. "I didn't…" He takes a breath. "I will never do that again. I swear, Chouji. I'm so sorry." He tries again to pull his foot free, but Chouji doesn't let go.

The injured shinobi is shaking even worse than Shikamaru. He mumbles an apology and something else that Shikamaru can't quite make out.

Shikamaru puts his hands to his face and presses them to his eyelids until red patterns appear. "You didn't do anything, Chouji. I fucked up. For the love of everything holy, don't apologize again. I may really hurt you this time."

"Why… why did you…?" The big hand tightens around his ankle, and Shikamaru abandons all thought of leaving. There's no escaping that grip, and he can't deny Chouji, anyway.

"Why?" Shikamaru asks bitterly. "Because I'm a shitty friend. You're not that naïve, Chouji, not even you."

"You're a great friend." It was the reply Shikamaru expected, but the conviction in the husky voice runs at odds with the automatic phrasing. "Don't say that."

Shikamaru bites his tongue until it bleeds, and then he can't stop the words anymore. "But I don't _want_ to be your friend, Chouji," he replies harshly, wishing he had Ino's polish, wishing he could say it with more eloquence. "Not just your friend. Haven't wanted to be just friends since we were about thirteen." If he was going to be damned for this ugly, graceless confession anyway, he might as well get it off his chest. The weight of his broken heart was going to be heavy enough without the burden of unspoken words.

The hand on his ankle tightens so intensely that Shikamaru bites the inside of a cheek clean through to avoid crying out. He probably deserves it, he thinks darkly. He had been too far removed, trying to escape his grief, trying to reach that place where nothing hurts, because nothing matters. Nothing but missions to complete, games to win, puzzles to solve. Some perfectly ordered world of moves and countermoves, causes and effects, patterns, sequences; some place higher and cleaner and more sensible than the unnavigable limbo of pain and memory that surrounds him.

Whatever it is that's hurt Chouji so badly, he had missed it, consumed in his own suffering, and that was unforgivable.

"I..." Chouji relinquishes Shikamaru's ankle suddenly, as if burned, and he presses his hand to his mouth, scarcely breathing.

"You what, Chouji?" Shiakmaru asks, tiredly. He drops into a crouch and hesitates only a moment before squeezing Chouji's shoulder. This time Chouji doesn't flinch away, and he asks more confidently, "What is it?"

Chouji pulls his knees up toward his chest, and takes an unsteady breath. "I…" His voice is thick, and he swallows hard. Flexing his toes, he begins to rock very slightly back and forth.

When he finally manages to speak, his voice is husky with pain, and he still won't look at Shikamaru. "Me, too."

Shikamaru's pulse is so slow it may as well have stopped altogether, because time itself seems to have come to a screeching halt. When his heart begins to beat again, the sound is like a thunderclap in his ears.

"You… You what?" Shikamaru blinks stupidly. Chouji can only mean one thing, and yet Shikamaru doesn't dare follow the thought to its reasonable conclusion.

The big shoulders heave with silent weeping as the broken shinobi continues his minute, childish rocking. "Since Academy." The words are muffled, mumbled into his knees, a ragged gasp between sobs. The litany of apologies begins anew, and he finally shrinks from Shikamaru's hand.

Stunned, Shikamaru stares blankly at Chouji's bare shoulder. Since Academy? Since before Shikamaru himself had known, and that had been several months after the botched Uchiha retrieval. The weight of that secret nearly ruined Shikamaru; Chouji has been carrying it twice as long.

He has been holding his breath. Exhaling sharply, he reaches out gingerly for Chouji's downturned face, shivering as his hand brushes his friend's knee. "Are you apologizing for…?" His tongue darts out to wet his lips. "For liking me?"

He cups one tattooed cheek, and turns Chouji's head up. He catches a flash of terrified doe's eyes before Chouji pulls away.

"I knew I wasn't…" Chouji reburies his face in his knees and is still. "I don't… I knew I could never…"

"Never what?" Shikamaru's sluggish brain picks up speed as he tries to make sense of his friend's stammering confession.

Chouji groans. "I'm not _good_ enough!" His voice is an anguished cry, and tears swell in Shikamaru's eyes again. This time, he cannot blink them away.

"Chouji!"

His friend flinches, as if the sound of his own name is painful, and begins to rock back and forth, more vigorously than before, almost vibrating with manic, nervous energy. Shikamaru watches, helpless, plumbing the furthest depths of his brain for something to say to break through the walls Chouji is building.

Ino would know what to say. Ino always knew what to say. If Chouji was the heart of their little group, and he was the brain, Ino was the face, she was expression and speech, the part that conveyed or concealed thought and emotion. Shikamaru's communication skills were adequate for the exchange of information, but precious little else; Ino's greatest strength as a shinobi is his greatest weakness as a leader.

And where the hell is she? After years of careful control, years spent meticulously guarding his eyes, his words, his body language, for the sole purpose of keeping the truth from Ino (Chouji wouldn't have picked up on even the most overt clues), he suddenly realizes he wouldn't even mind her inclusion in this secret, if she could only make Chouji stop crying.

But Ino is not here.

Shikamaru inhales deeply, praying to gods he doesn't believe in for courage he knows he doesn't have, and crawls onto the pillow with Chouji, so that they are sitting side by side. Stretching an arm out, feeling that he is not in control of his own body – perhaps this is how being controlled by his shadow feels? – he embraces the broad shoulders and drags Chouji closer to him. The rocking stops.

"If there is a better man alive," Shikamaru offers quietly, after a long moment of apprehensive silence, "I haven't met him." Immediately the damp head begins to shake, denials spill from the trembling lips. Shikamaru slips a hand over Chouji's mouth, and presses his lips against Chouji's ear.

"Chouji," he murmurs, willing the strength of his convictions into his voice. Swallowing hard, both terrified and exhilarated by his boldness, he kisses the flushed, warm ear, and whispers, "In the most secret, darkest, ugliest places in your soul, you are ten times the man I'll ever be."

"You're wrong," Chouji whispers.

"No." Shikamaru lies back against the wall, pulling the big shinobi back with him so that the honey-red head rests against his bare chest. The wet hair chafes a little, but Chouji doesn't pull away, so the discomfort is meaningless.

"You may be a better man than I am, but I'm still smarter than you," he observes dryly. "So stop arguing with me." He closes his eyes, and lazily tangles his fingers in the long hair.

"You're pretty stupid about love, Shikamaru," Chouji replies hoarsely. But he still doesn't try to move away.

"Maybe. I'm not stupid enough to love someone who isn't worthy of it, though." Smiling in spite of himself, he adds, "I suppose we're lucky you are." The tip of Chouji's nose, which is all of his face that Shikamaru can see through his half-open eyelids and Chouji's mane of hair, blushes rosily.

"I don't know where we go from here," Shikamaru admits after a few minutes of silence. "I'm pretty sure a confession to someone who already likes you is not supposed to end up with both parties in tears. I didn't plan for that."

Chouji snorts, and Shikamaru chuckles, and as it always does, laughter begins to assuage the tension.

"This is what's going to happen right now, though." Shikamaru is serious, now. "I am going to bind these wounds. When Ino comes back, we're going to talk, we're going to eat, and then you're going to sleep as long as you possibly can. This," he gestures vaguely to their sprawled figures, "can wait until you're healthy again." Which could be months, but Shikamaru doesn't say that. Months won't be long enough for them to even begin making sense of the events of the last ten minutes, anyway.

"Shikamaru…" Chouji is tense. "I would rather bandage them myself."

"I know," Shikamaru replies, almost sympathetic as he slides out from behind his friend. "But I can't let you." Chouji tries to right himself; Shikamaru restrains him and makes him lie back against the wall. Crouching in front of him, he waits until Chouji is brave enough to meet his gaze.

"You're just going to have to get used to me and Ino taking care of you for awhile," he says, when the clear brown eyes flash upward. "I don't know what's going on. I don't know what possessed you to do any of this. I don't know how to deal with what you've done, or how to make you never do it again. And I hate not knowing, Chouji. You could have died." Shikamaru reaches up to place a fallen lock of hair behind the red ear he had kissed. "I…" The words are so awkward, and he is so fucking awkward; he's no good at this. His stomach is roiling. Ino could say it better – and where the fuck is she?

"I need to know you're going to be okay," he finally manages, past the dryness in his throat. "And you're too generous to deny me that."

They share a long look, and Shikamaru wins the contest. Shivering, mouth twisting anxiously, Chouji takes his hand away from the blood-seeped gauze on his belly. Other cuts have begun to bleed, and the raw, chafed ring around his hips oozes a mixture of serum and blood. Shikamaru nods his approval. He plants an index finger squarely in the middle of Chouji's head, applying a firm, steady pressure until the big man's head is resting against the wall. "Close your eyes. Deep breaths."

Chouji swallows hard and tries to obey. He bites his lip as Shikamaru's cold hands wipe away blood with alcohol-soaked gauze, but he doesn't move as the cold, bony fingers brush his skin. Shikamaru lays another strip of cloth against a second particularly nasty gash, to keep it from seeping as he cleans the other injuries. Quickening breaths alarm him as he smoothes antibiotic ointments to the worst of the lacerations; he pauses and, resting his open palm on a relatively unbroken bit of skin between Chouji's ribs, waits for his friend to regain his composure. It takes several long moments and a few shamed tears leaking from the corners of tightly closed eyes, but eventually Chouji's breath slows, and with swift hands, Shikamaru medicates and bandages the remainder of the gouges.

"Almost done," Shikamaru promises quietly. Taking the big shinobi by the arm, he pulls him upright. "Just let me wrap this." The tips of his fingers brush the ring of pulpy skin, now slick with healing salve. Chouji flinches. "I swear, I'm almost finished."

Chouji rubs his eyes wearily, like a child. "Okay, Shikamaru." He doesn't protest when Shikamaru helps him to his feet, and though his stance is rigid and strained, he allows his friend to wind a long bandage around his waist. Too tired to argue anymore, perhaps, or too wise to fight a battle he cannot win. Shikamaru motions to the bed after tying off the ends of the bandage.

"Wait there." Shikamaru strips the bed of its bloodied linen, taking the precaution of hiding the bed sheets in the closet. They're white; all shinobi prefer white sheets, because they bleach clean. It's a moment's work to dress the bed in fresh linen, and then he takes Chouji's elbow and maneuvers him into a semi-reclined position, propped up with pillows against the wall.

"I'm tired." He looks it. The blush has faded; he is pale and drawn and can barely keep his eyes open.

"Soon, Chouji," Shikamaru swears. "We need to wait for Ino, remember?"

"Ino…" he mumbles. "I need a shirt."

Shikamaru hesitates. Ino meant to deal with Chouji's hernias when she returned.

Without an ounce of the superior attitude she generally assumed when lecturing about medical matters, she had explained that bits of tissue that belonged behind the abdominal wall had burst through in a number of places, aberrations almost certainly due to the increased internal pressure caused by the chain. Potentially dangerous if left untreated, she said, but most of them could be repaired simply enough. The protruding tissue could be "reduced," manually worked back into place behind the muscle, though not without some pain. A carefully wrapped sarashi would support Chouji's shredded abdominal muscles until her chakra had recovered enough to heal the rips in the abdominal wall.

Soon, she would have to make incisions to repair the "irreducible" hernias, but she could not do so until her chakra had recovered. The majority of it had been spent healing a viciously deep cut below Chouji's navel; one, she conjectured, which had been gouged open multiple times. It would scar, despite her best efforts.

Chouji had barely tolerated Shikamaru's superficial touch, and Ino would have to knead and massage and dig into the flesh of which he was so ashamed. If he knew Ino's intentions, he would surely panic. A shirt, then, Shikamaru decides. For now.

He doesn't get the opportunity to speak.

"A shirt would get in the way," Ino observes. She is perched in the window, looking for all the world as if she had been comfortably ensconced there for hours. Resting on the sill at her feet is a bottle of juice and several paper bags of fragrant miso, hot rice, and something with eggs – omelets, Shikamaru realizes. Breakfast. It is nearly sunrise.

Chouji squeaks in embarrassment. He turns his face from the girl in the window, using a pillow to cover his bandaged stomach.

"That's going to get in the way, too," Ino says grimly, twisting so that her legs dangle into the room.

Chouji hunches over the pillow, eyes tightly shut. "Please, go away, Ino."

Shikamaru and Ino share a look, and then he takes the bags from the windowsill and offers a hand to help his partner into the room. He is awarded a slight smile for his gallantry, and he's suddenly relieved. He isn't going to have to be the one to explain what Ino has to do. For him, the worst of the awkwardness is past. They will settle into their comfortable roles: brain, heart, and face. He has only to observe, and if necessary, keep Chouji still.

Ino picks up the juice, plucking it from the sill like an apple from a tree, and crawls onto the mattress with Chouji. Her short pajama bottoms (that reveal entirely too much of her slim legs), and loose camisole (which would hide nothing from Chouji if his face weren't smashed into his pillow just now) do not seem to trouble her. A hot rush of displeasure surges in Shikamaru's mouth; he quashes it. It's Ino, after all. Ino doesn't look at guys like Chouji – or Shikamaru, for that matter – like that. It's a profound friendship, but that's all. The kittenish prowl, the sway of her rear end as she sidles up next to his… whatever Chouji is to him now… well, she probably doesn't even realize she's doing it. She's always been an overtly sensual creature.

Fine golden hair sways over her shoulders as she lays her head to one side. "No wonder your hair is so soft," she murmurs, reaching out to touch the wet locks. "You never do anything to it. No hairdryer, no product. Mine would be a mess."

Shikamaru raises a quizzical brow. She shakes her head with a wry twist to her mouth and gathers the damp hair into a tail. The russet mane is thick, so that she can barely circle it with her small hands. Shikamaru's eyes narrow, and a sudden flash of intuition informs him that he is absurdly jealous. Ino has always been demonstrative, but her effortless intimacy with Chouji, his best friend, his confessed admirer – it is inexplicably galling.

Chouji shivers beside her.

"You need to calm yourself," she advises gently, combing through the tail absently with her fingers. "You have some decisions to make, now. Whatever you decide to do, Shikamaru and I, we'll be here for you. There's nothing you can say that would make us think less of you. But these are choices you have to make for yourself."

Chouji rests his face in the pillow, still shivering. "… a shirt. Please, Ino…"

Pink lips purse slightly, and she glances up at Shikamaru, who shrugs, then nods.

"Okay, Chouji," she relents. "Anything to make this easier for you. But I'm afraid it's going to be unpleasant, shirt or no shirt."

An old wooden dresser stands by the bathroom door; Shikamaru goes to it and withdraws a clean black pullover from the middle drawer. Wordlessly, he hands it to Chouji. With a whisper of gratitude, Chouji tugs the shirt on as quickly as his exhausted body will permit.

Shikamaru moves to retreat toward the door, but a slight hand catches his to halt him. He pauses, looks down at the fine white fingers wrapped round his own bony digits. Ino nods imperiously at Chouji's other side. Rather than argue with her (futile), Shikamaru yields, climbing into the bed with his partners. He crosses his legs and his arms, lies back against the wall, and waits.

"Better?" Ino's voice is quiet, restful, unlike her usual frenetic babble. Chouji is no longer shivering, though he has not surrendered the pillow clutched to his belly. He nods hesitantly.

"Good. Drink this." Ino hands him the bottle of red juice. "Not too fast."

He stares. "It's… it's just sugar, Ino." Shikamaru's shoulder twinges a bit; there is something evasive in Chouji's manner. He doesn't like it.

Ino's pretty face is carefully blank. "It's not. It's medicinal, a specially prepared electrolyte replacement fluid, which has been fortified with essential nutrients. You can drink that, and several more of those over the next few days, or we can do it intravenously. It might be a little hard to explain an IV to your parents, but I can do it if I have to. Or we can go to the hospital, and you can talk to Psych about why you're suddenly terrified of sugary drinks."

Chouji flinches. "How many…?" Thinking better of it, he shakes his head.

"How many calories are in it?" Ino translates calmly. She's grasped something Shikamaru has not, to so swiftly interpret his thoughts. The thought is unsettling. "In the whole bottle, about three hundred."

The color drains from Chouji's face.

"Why does it matter?" Shikamaru asks uneasily. "You need it."

"Chouji," Ino asks, ignoring his disquiet, "when did you last eat something?"

Chouji looks at the bottle, not at Ino. "You were here when I ate dinner."

"Yes, dear, but I meant, when did you last eat something without making yourself sick afterward?"

Shikamaru looks sharply up at them both, but neither speaks. An awkward silence descends. Ino alone doesn't seem to feel it. There is sympathy in her eyes – not pity – and her gaze is very steady as she patiently awaits an answer. As the minutes wear on and on, it never falters.

Perfectly poised, like a slender green stem bearing a heavy bloom, strength both unexpected and humbling. Asuma had that quality too, that supreme composure in the face of the overwhelming. Shikamaru is suddenly unable to breathe.

Even now, she is aching; he knows it, even if he can't see it. But, as it had been for Asuma-sensei, the feelings – confusion, anger, guilt, regret, sorrow – they are simply a part of her, intrinsically Ino. Not weaknesses to be overcome. Nothing of which she should be ashamed or frightened, nothing from which she need detach herself in order to function.

Which is, of course, utterly incomprehensible to a man who fears what he feels more than anything. Emotions are distracting and cumbersome and unpredictable, and sometimes, like now, they just fucking _hurt_. By their very nature, they introduced an unknown factor into the most carefully laid plans. Feelings are dangerous, stupidly, recklessly so for shinobi. And so he suppresses them as best he can.

It had been a point on which he and Asuma had never agreed, and Shikamaru is at once vividly aware that Ino had been as much a student of Asuma's character as he had been. She has chosen to adopt a different aspect of the man than Shikamaru had, but it is Asuma he sees in her now. It a surprising comfort, to know that he isn't carrying on Asuma's heart and will alone.

"Chouji?" Shikamaru asks uncertainly. Ino watches the bowed head intently, but the big man doesn't answer.

Her eyes flash with something less corrosive than anger, something shinier and more brilliant than determination, and Ino releases Chouji's hair to hold his hand. "I'm sorry," she says softly. "A lot of the questions I have for you don't have to be answered right now. The hard questions, the whys, those can wait until they're easier to talk about. I do need to know this, though. When did you last eat? "

"There was… an apple…" he replies finally. "I didn't mean to," he goes on, in a rush of words. "I didn't even want it. I just… I couldn't sleep…" He rubs his face, frustrated. "I ended up running all night anyway, so it was stupid. I didn't need it." Light flashes from the shine on his cheek; he's crying.

Shikamaru seeks out Ino's blue-green gaze, bewildered. A raise of her shoulders is all the answer she makes. "When?" she presses.

"I don't… it wasn't today."

"Today's already tomorrow," Ino observes, turning briefly to the open window, where morning birds have already begun to greet the day. "Not yesterday, then. The day before?"

One big fist clenches the bed sheet tightly. "Three days, then," Ino surmises – but she's wrong; Chouji bows his head in shame. For a split second, the fear Shikamaru feels building in his breast is visible on Ino's face. She hides it quickly, however, and goes on.

"When did you last eat a full meal?"

Another shake of the amber hair. "Don't remember."

Shikamaru's temper flares, he closes his eyes and counts. "This isn't a diet," he observes inanely, mostly to force Ino to explain. Of course it wasn't a diet, he'd known that – but what the hell was it?

"No." Ino sighs. "No, it's not." Rubbing Chouji's shoulder absently, she gathers her thoughts before speaking again.

"Chouji, I know you've been taking spinach pills."

"No!" Shikamaru can't contain this outburst, but at Chouji's cringe and Ino's warning glare, he manages to bite his tongue.

Ino glowers at him, still rubbing Chouji's shoulder. "I need to know how many, and for how long."

He's shivering again. "I don't… I don't… know."

"Guess," she encourages, with that same calm, unruffled tone. It is soothing Chouji's jangled nerves somewhat, and Shikamaru's as well. It's out of character, but Ino is an expert at being out of character, at channeling her emotions into words and actions that suit her purpose. Equanimity is what is necessary; she will be calm and they will follow suit.

This subtle, powerful ability will earn her a jounin rank someday, and a role in ANBU or the intelligence division, if she wants it. The self-discipline to control one's emotions, the skill to convey whatever attitude will further a cause, and her own sheer genius for discreet manipulation – together, those will carry her far. Shikamaru realizes that he is deeply pleased with her for her grace under fire tonight.

"It was three weeks ago," Chouji is saying, haltingly, "but I didn't take whole ones. Seven? Maybe… eight, altogether?"

Eight.

Shikamaru had once insisted Chouji describe the effects of his family's secret soldier pills. Racing pulse, and fire that spread from the stomach to the heart, and scorched through the veins bit by bit by bit until every fiber of muscle, every cell was inflamed with it. Pain, sharp, stabbing pain as the liver, gallbladder, and pancreas function at many times their normal pace, as the stored carbohydrates in the liver evaporate and metabolized fat turns to glucose and then, through the secret Akimichi jutsu, into chakra. With a rueful grin, Chouji had admitted the first time very nearly put him on his knees.

He had inflicted that on himself repeatedly over the last three weeks, and for what? For Ino? Gods forbid, for Shikamaru? Why?

"Okay." Ino's eyes are closed, but her brow is peaceful, untroubled. It's a mask, but only Shikamaru would know it. "I want you to drink that, now. I wanted you to have breakfast, too, but I hadn't realized how little you've been eating. And gods only know what eight soldier pills may have done to you. I'll have to do a more thorough examination when my chakra recovers. Until then, we had better to stick to liquids for a day or two."

The big shinobi swallows hard, looking ill. The bottle shakes terribly as he attempts to twist the cap off. Shikamaru mutely reaches over to open the bottle for him.

"We can do an IV, or take you to the hospital, if it's too hard. Or we can get your parents." Ino's eyes are very gentle as she reminds Chouji that he has choices – unpleasant ones, perhaps, but choices nonetheless. "You have to get used to eating again, and soon, but it doesn't have to be here and now. I know you're tired."

"Not that tired," Chouji mutters. He draws a deep breath and takes a long pull off the juice. His face registers disgust, but he takes another drink before lowering the bottle. "I don't… don't take me to the hospital. Don't tell my parents."

A nod of the slender neck, a shiver of blonde hair. "You want it to remain between us, then?"

Chouji's eyes are closed, and he looks nauseated. "Please. Please."

"Alright, dear," Ino agrees quietly. "But you need to understand this. If we don't feel like we're able to help you, we will get you to someone who can. So don't give us a reason to doubt ourselves."

Chouji's lips form a thin, tight line, but he nods briefly.

"Ino." Shikamaru sit up a little straighter. "What exactly is… this?"

"I can't say for sure until we dig a little deeper." Ino shrugs and taps the bottle, reminding Chouji to drink. "Anorexia fits."

Shikamaru shakes his head blankly. "What?"

Ino laughs softly, and Chouji caps the bottle to rest his head on the pillow still clutched against his belly. "Why doesn't it surprise me that you don't know?" she asks, with an oddly affectionate note in her voice. "Chouji knows. He accused me of it, a long time ago."

"I'm not." Chouji mumbles into the pillow. "Anorexic."

"I won't make you defend that statement tonight," Ino remarks, "but soon enough."

The shaggy head raises just enough for Shikamaru to see something darkly amused in Chouji's eyes. "I'm not…" Chouji squeezes the pillow. "Not thin enough to be anorexic," he jokes weakly, with a rough exhalation that's meant to approximate a laugh.

Neither of his teammates joins in. "Anorexics don't start off emaciated." Ino opens the bottle and firmly wraps Chouji's hand around it. "Most of the time, they're people-pleasers with low self-esteem and a lot of misplaced guilt, who think somehow self-denial and suffering will make them better people. You don't think that's you?"

Chouji hides his face in the pillow again.

Shikamaru growls softly as his patience runs thin. "Hello?"

The chill in his voice earns him a raised blonde brow. "It's a psychological disorder where someone becomes obsessed with a desire to become thinner, with a concurrent fear of gaining weight." Ino turns her eyes back on Chouji, who flinches under the words. "Distorted body image. Excessive dieting and exercise. Extreme weight loss. Often accompanied by other forms of self-harm."

"That… makes sense, I guess." Shikamaru uncrosses his arms and stares at the backs of his hands.

"I'm not!" Chouji's cry is muffled, but his chagrin is obvious, nonetheless.

"Okay," Ino shrugs. "Whether you are or you aren't, you _are_ malnourished and dehydrated, you've lost entirely too much weight for such a short amount of time, and you've deliberately injured yourself. The symptoms are there; the diagnosis is less important than the treatment."

She sighs heavily. "Speaking of that, dear… I hoped you would calm down enough for us to get somewhere tonight, but I think maybe it would be better to back off for awhile. We all need a chance to rest and get our bearings. But before that, I'm going to need you to take your shirt off."

"What? No!"

There is a painting of cherry trees by a river hanging on Chouji's wall; Shikamaru goes to stand before it as Ino begins to explain the other thing she is going to do tonight. Neither of his teammates needs to see his tears, and he's already seen the shine of them in Ino's. They're shattering; she can't hold them together, and it's breaking her heart. Chouji couldn't hold them together, and it's killing him. Shikamaru knows he can't hold them together - he's half over the edge himself. But, he wonders, watching them try, watching them fail and try harder, maybe they felt the same way?

That's another revelation. They suffered under this crushing sense of culpability, too.

All of them were determined to not be a burden, resolved to bite down on their own pain to avoid exacerbating the others'. It's tearing them apart, each attempting to alleviate the others' grief while shouldering their own suffering alone.

She can't say she's scared to death they'll leave her, can't give voice to the nightmares that leave her twisting and moaning on his floor in the middle of the night. Chouji can't say he isn't strong enough to keep his team together, when one is clinging tightly enough to suffocate them, and the other is drifting away like an outgoing tide – and Shikamaru has been drifting, aimless, empty, and useless.

He had believed that a failed attempt to support his broken teammates would be a greater evil than allowing them to rely on him for anything beyond floor space and poor company. Maybe he had been wrong.

Maybe they needed to shatter, only together, not separately. Maybe they needed to stop pretending to strengths and convictions they no longer have. Maybe the lie that they were okay, or that they were going to be okay, or that it was going to be okay or whatever fucking platitude they were telling each other and trying to believe – maybe the lie weighed on them more than the truth ever could.

Yes, he thinks, feeling clear-headed for the first time since Ino had taken his hand in the window. He gathers his shadow regretfully. No more lies. No more false bravado or cheer or apathy. Ino is scared. Chouji hates himself for not being enough to keep everyone together. Shikamaru's a fucking coward who can't find the courage to face his own grief, never mind theirs. They're all fucked up, but maybe it doesn't matter as long as they're fucked up together.

Ino is standing as well, now, on her guard.

"I'm sorry," she tells Chouji simply. "I understand how you feel, but it has to be done. The medics at the hospital can do it, or I can, and that's the decision you have to make, dear. You will not harm yourself further, and you will get the healing you need. You don't get a choice about that. If you want this to stay between the three of us, you need to lie down."

"No!" Chouji's feet hit the floor, but before he can get himself erect, Shikamaru's shadow is lapping his ankles, thwarting his efforts. Fresh tears stream down his face as he struggles vainly to free himself. "Shikamaru!" he cries. The plea breaks Shikamaru's heart, but not his binding.

"She's right, Chouji. For once. One way or another, you have to get better. I can take you to the hospital, if you would prefer." Quiet sobbing and a shake of the head form his answer, and he slowly releases his jutsu. "Okay, then. Pull yourself together, and let's get on with this."

Outside, the sun is casting a dingy glow through a darkly clouded horizon as Ino motions for Chouji to lie flat on his back. "I'm so sorry," she murmurs. "That last thing on earth I want is to hurt you or embarrass you, and I have to do both. But you know what?" Her eyes are very soft. "You're the strongest person I know, Chouji, and you can do this. I've seen what you can do for the people you care about."

Smoothing hair back from his face, she smiles. "I need to know you're going to be okay," she says, and there's a sweetly bitter ache in her voice as she unconsciously echoes Shikamaru's earlier remark. "So be strong for me, now, and let me help you." She leans over him, and to Shikamaru's chagrin, presses a firm kiss to his forehead.

Chouji's terrified gaze lands on Shikamaru as Ino's hands come to rest on his bared stomach.

_I'm here_, Shikamaru mouths silently. He has nothing to give but his presence; he prays it is enough.

_Don't be afraid._


	10. Chapter 10

It is mortifying and painful. Shikamaru's jutsu keeps his belly relaxed and flabby, while Ino's fingers work deeply into his flesh, kneading the distended adipose tissue and other viscera into its proper place behind the abdominal wall. Underneath the thin sheet, his tears are without voice; he is not in control of his diaphragm. Every ten minutes are so, Ino pauses, resting her palm on his bared, bloated stomach, to make him speak to her. "You okay?" she asks quietly, or "I can do it later if the bruises are making it too painful," or "Tell me if it hurts very badly."

It hurts terribly, but he won't tell her so. He knows all too well that he deserves it. Ino hadn't forced him to remove his shirt, but she had raised it up over his ribs. To his dismay, she had also drawn the waist of his pants down, exposing the monstrosity of the Great White Beast in all its overstuffed gruesomeness. Her fragile fingers have no more business touching the fat, bloated thing than Shikamaru's thin, bony ones did.

_It really would be better if they hated you_, chili pepper Chouji muses, sighing as Ino probes more painfully into Chouji's stomach. _But they won't desert you, no matter how much you deserve it, and you're not a good enough liar to convince them you don't want them around. Besides which, anything you could do that would push them away will also make Ino unload your fat ass on Psych, and be damned to the consequences. The food and meds would blow you up like a fucking balloon._

Chouji shudders hard. Antidepressants, confinement, and a steady diet administered by specialized Psych medics who wouldn't hesitate to use force if he refused nutrition. He would be as a fat as a hippopotamus.

Like he hadn't always been fat as a hippopotamus. A discontented moan escapes him, to his dismay.

"Are you okay?" Ino asks, her voice strained. She knows she's hurting him, but he loathes himself for confirming it.

"Sorry," he mumbles into the white sheet. "I was thinking about something else."

"Tell me," Shikamaru orders hoarsely. Chouji can't see him through his veil of cotton, but he can feel black eyes boring into the side of his face.

Chouji bites his lip; he doesn't want to talk about his hideousness, his shame, or chili pepper Chouji. "I was wishing you would stop wasting your time on me," he says instead, softly, hating himself for the falsehood. It's not untrue, but it wasn't the answer Shikamaru sought, so it was the same as a lie.

He hears Shikamaru inhale to protest, but Ino is faster. She begins to work the excess flesh of his belly again. "My dad always told me people need love most when they feel like they least deserve it," she remarks calmly. "Which makes me wonder what it is you think you've done that you're not worth our time."

"Aside from starving, denigrating, and torturing someone we care about," Shikamaru mutters.

"Well, that," Ino agrees, still kneading Chouji's stomach. She finds another hernia and digs deeply to correct it.

"One of these days," she says, laying one hand over his heart, "you're going to have to explain how you can possibly justify what you've done to yourself." He turns his face to the wall, his face wet with tears yet again.

"No," she chides. She touches his cheeks, shifts his head so that he's looking at her. "Look at me. I need to know you're hearing me."

Powerless to protest, he meets her gaze. Blue pools as fathomless as the furthest reaches of the universe stare intently down at him, twin jewels, clear, mesmerizing. Her long blond hair streams over her shoulder like a river of molten gold, caressing his cheek.

"Not tonight," she continues, with a confidence as certain and as steady as a heartbeat. "Maybe not for a long time. It doesn't matter. Whenever you do decide you're ready to talk about it, we'll work through it together, the three of us."

Cool hands frame his face, and there is a little steel in the wrists; he cannot look away. "But, Chouji, you have to understand that we can't wait for months to get you sorted out physically. I'm sure people are already asking questions – by the time they get around to seriously investigating, all the evidence has to be gone, or buried so well they'll never find it. Do you understand?"

He nods, gritting his teeth, ashamed of his tears, ashamed of the kindness wasted on him.

"Do you?" She's sitting on the bed, but stretched over him, nearly prone on top of him from the waist up. Her breasts brush his chest, but he barely registers them.

"I don't just mean healing cuts and repairing hernias." She tangles her fingers his hair. Shikamaru's fingers twitch anxiously in Chouji's periphery, but Ino's voice cuts into his thoughts, preventing further speculation about what might be upsetting Shikamaru.

"You need to eat normally, and you have to stop losing weight."

_No!_ Chili pepper Chouji's infuriated shriek is almost as shrill as Chouji's own subconscious wailing. "I… I'm not…" Chouji stammers, and tries again. "That's not the –"

"You're ill, Chouji," Shikamaru growls, finally breaking his silence. Ino slips her hand out of Chouji's hair, leans back a bit, and Shikamaru's twitching fingers relax.

Ino nods her agreement. "People are only curious right now, but they're getting worried – and with good reason. My best lies aren't going to get you out of a psych eval if your weight keeps dropping like it has been. You have to stop."

"You _wanted_ me to! And I can, Ino, I promise I can!"

Shikamaru flinches at the vehemence in his tone – and he hates himself for this, too, that they should be hurt and worried for him; he doesn't deserve their concern, and even if he did, what kind of friend made his friends look so miserable? He's disgusting, a bloated, monstrous, and ultimately helpless creature clinging to their backs, dragging them down –

"I know you can, but you shouldn't." Ino inclines her chin stubbornly. "And we won't let you, in any case. We may not be able to make you care for yourself properly, but no matter how angry you are with yourself, no matter how much you dislike yourself right now, I know you care about us more."

_Tell her_, chili pepper Chouji urges, to Chouji's chagrin. _ She wanted you to weigh sixty-three kilos, right? And that's still _huge_, you obese slug, you know she was only trying to be tolerant. Shikamaru doesn't weigh fifty-five. Tell the people you supposedly care about how lazy you've been. Tell your teammates the truth, that you didn't care enough to be hungry for just a little while for them. That you wanted to sleep more than you wanted to be someone they didn't have to be ashamed to be seen with. That you're nothing but a selfish, undisciplined glutton, and they'd be better off without you. She won't make you eat if she knows the truth about you. You're always going to be a piece of shit, but you don't have to be an eyesore._

_Tell her. And if she still wants to dig and poke and prod at your disgusting self, because she pities you, you lie there like a fucking man and take it, knowing you don't deserve her pity or her concern or her friendship. Anymore than you deserve Shikamaru's._

He feels like he's going to pass out. "Seventy-four," he whispers.

Shikamaru's black blows swoop down in confusion, but Ino knows. A tired wave of her hand signals Shikamaru to silence.

"That's what you weigh now?"

He nods miserably, wishing he could vomit again, wishing he could puke away every sweet, every extra helping, every snack he shouldn't have eaten, every unsightly bulge. He should be running, he thinks feverishly, he should have been running for hours now.

"Then that's what you need to weigh tomorrow, and next week, and next month. Probably a little more, actually, considering how dehydrated you are." Ino crosses her arms, as determined as Tsunade at the gambler's table.

His eyes are open so wide that the corners stretch painfully. More? Gain weight? She can't mean it. "I can't! I have… I have to…"

"You have to recover, Chouji," she interrupts gently. "Didn't Shikamaru just tell you? You're _sick_. But you have to be able to fool a trained shinobi medic into believing you when you say you're alright, and to do that, you can't be running around with gouges cut out of every available inch of skin. Your blood tests have to be perfectly normal, so you have to eat properly. If they put you through multiple physicals, you have to weigh about the same each time, and you can't be battered from training past the point of exhaustion every day." She taps his chest gently. "Seventy-four. Not a gram less."

"Ino… I can't… I _can't_!"

He sobs. She doesn't mean it. She wants him to be slim, like Shikamaru, like Sasuke. Of course she does – girls like slim guys. Everyone likes slim guys. He can be thinner. He can close the chain tighter, tighter, tighter, until there's nothing left to spill over, until his belly kisses his spine, and his bones stand out against the pallor of his flesh like monuments to the strength of his devotion to his teammates. The only thing that keeps him from being unredeemable – he would do anything for them. Suffer anything, gladly. Anything for them.

So she can't mean it. She can't take away his only virtue. She can't.

The vice-like grip on his wrist forces his attention to Shikamaru, who is as stony-faced as the Hokages etched into the mountainside to the west. The shadow of morning scruff on his cheeks is wet; Chouji hasn't been the only one weeping.

"I hope you're wrong, Chouji," Ino answers softly. "Because, what you're doing now, it's not okay. And I really need you to be okay. You and Shikamaru both. I'll be okay if the two of you are."

She's wrong. She needs him to better fit into her perfect world, to not pollute her sensitivities with his stomach-churning flaws. He can't speak anymore, so he shakes his head instead, and cries harder watching a heavy silver tear slide down the side of Shikamaru's nose.

Bile surges into his throat. He swallows it, shuddering with disgust, pleading with anyone who might be listening to please, please not let him spew the vile stuff all over his friends.

His nerves are so tightly wound that his muscles are seizing into painful cramps, but he tries not to let it show. It's probably caused by the electrolyte imbalance Ino mentioned; most shinobi suffer those from time to time. A known hazard of an extremely active profession. But if Ino catches him twitching, she'll force more of that sugar water down his throat, sucrose that will become glucose which will become fat. He feels the pressure of the absent chain squeezing him down as the red juice and this forced inactivity caused him to swell up like a balloon, fatter and fatter and more disgusting with each passing second.

And then he can't help himself. Throwing an arm across Ino with as much restraint as he can manage, he shoves her roughly away, ignoring the screaming from his stomach, from his overused muscles. He gets his feet on the ground, and though Shikamaru's shadow wavers, Chouji must look as sick as he feels, because he does not interfere. Chouji staggers to the bathroom and is thoroughly sick in the toilet.

_All of it_, chili pepper Chouji instructs from the lip of the tub. _Vomit until your throat bleeds, if you have to, but get rid of all of it._

_More. _The emaciated figment of Chouji's imagination exhales slowly and draws his flat belly in, smaller and smaller until there are perhaps a dozen centimeters between his navel and his spine. _I'll help you_, he promises, laying his palm against his hollow stomach.

And Chouji has the sudden image of his naked body in a public bath, surrounded by the trim, well-formed figures of his former classmates. Sai alone doesn't bother looking; he is busy observing everyone else's reactions.

There's Neji, in the bath already, cool eyes slightly too wide as he considers Chouji's audacity. Something like pity from Kiba, open disgust from Sasuke. Lee is sympathetic, spouting an incessant droning of passionate nonsense. He offers to run one hundred laps around the village with Chouji after their bath. Shino sinks lower into the water until it covers his mouth, hiding from the awkwardness.

And as Naruto grins, circling his hands before his stomach to indicate Chouji's vast girth, cheerfully supplying his usual ill-timed, inane observation ("Wow, you're fat!"), Shikamaru is trying, with all the impressive skills at his command, to not look uncomfortable and ashamed.

And of course there is more, and Chouji retches violently as wicked-tasting bile flushes out the last of the juice from his stomach, until he is blessedly empty. Several minutes of dry heaving leave his recently bandaged cuts stinging from the exertion. When he finally has control over his convulsing stomach, he closes the toilet lid, flushes it, and sits back, with his eyes fixed firmly on the tile floor. There is blood here, he notices tiredly; he had been careless.

A damp washcloth is proffered; he takes it and wipes his face, which feels much too warm. The bathroom is still muggy from his shower. "Sorry," he mutters hoarsely. His throat hurts.

Shikamaru's hand reaches down to help him to his feet, and he doesn't bother trying to scramble out of the iron grip. He's spent, too weak to fight, now. Ino is in the doorway, with the cup from his bathroom counter in her hand. She hands it to him silently and takes the washcloth to rinse in the sink, shifting after a moment to let him spit.

A blue toothbrush with green paste is given to him in exchange for the cup. With a helpless glance, he performs this last ablution with the audience that refuses to grant him the least bit of privacy.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles again.

"But for the wrong things, Chouji." Shikamaru rubs his face tiredly. "Always for the wrong things."

He leans against the wall, feeling weaker than he has all night. Beads of moisture cling to the paint still, making his grip slick. Chancing a glance at Ino, he bites his lip guiltily as she pinches the bridge of her nose, looking as bone-weary as he feels.

"You know half a dozen ways to calm yourself during a panic attack," she reminds him quietly. "We all do. It's something you have to master to make chuunin."

He says nothing.

"You didn't want to," she surmises. "You could have stopped yourself, and you didn't. You didn't want to stop." She sighs, and Chouji slides further down against the wall, eyes on the bloodstained tile beneath his sink.

"I'm sorry." There's a long moment of silence, and he wishes he were Kurenai, and could fade into the wall and disappear and never be heard from again.

"But for the wrong things," Ino echoes after a moment. Then one of her little hands is cupping his cheek, her thumb gently rubbing at his tears. He stiffens, but she doesn't even seem to notice. She peers up into his face, so much smaller than he is, though he's slouching like an ape. A vaguely ironic smile turns the corner of her mouth, and something much more profound than sympathy glows in the limpid depths of her eyes.

"I'm going to make this easier for you, okay? Don't cry." She brushes hair out of his face. "See if you can't get him to lie down, Shika-kun," she tells the other shinobi, without looking at him. Her smile softens a bit as she draws her hand back. "I'll be along in a minute."

Shikamaru nods and takes Chouji's elbow. "Come on." Chouji pushes himself upright and follows the lead of the gentle hand on his arm. He stumbles to the bed and stares at it, trying not to think about what Ino is going to do. There's no escape from it, this time, he decides wearily; she won't leave until she's poked and prodded and 'fixed' him as best she can. He struggles a little when Shikamaru tries to coax him into lying flat on his back, but his old friend is stronger than he is just now, and the lightest pressure is enough to coerce him.

Shikamaru is just getting settled on the floor beside him when they hear Ino retching in the bathroom. Chouji doesn't have the strength left to move, or even to be surprised, but his usually indolent friend bolts to the door, quick as lightning despite his weariness, only to find it locked against him.

"Ino!" Shikamaru hisses to the door. "The hell…?"

He is answered only by muffled gagging; somehow even in this, she is daintier than anyone and fragile as a rose. It probably doesn't even smell.

"Ino…" Chouji says dully, to no one. Of course Ino is ill. He's sickening. If only they could hate him, he could get out of their lives for good. But he's not strong enough to do that. He craves their friendship more than he ever wanted food. He can deny himself the one, if it's for their sakes. He is too selfish, too greedy to reject them, even for their own good.

_You never deserved them. You never will. No matter how empty I make you, no matter how I shape you, it will never change what you are. You're still the guy who shoveled barbeque in his mouth while Ino looked sick enough to vomit. You're still the guy that caused Jirobo to mock Shikamaru, because you looked so fat and weak and useless. And you did nothing to change that, for four years. Even knowing that, you can't push them away. Even now you make them shoulder the burden of your dead weight._

Chili pepper Chouji is angry, and Chouji knows he should be angry, too. But he's so tired. He just wants Ino to stop making those sounds, wants the rising desperation in Shikamaru's eyes to fade to familiar ennui. He never wants to eat again, never wants to move again. Starving to death here in his bed couldn't be more painful than watching them suffer because of his useless self.

It wouldn't last forever, would it? Just a little while. They would mourn for a little while, and then it would be okay. Ino would find some beautiful boy to make beautiful babies with – and she would be a great mother, someday. Shikamaru would hurt longer, but somebody worthy of him could make the pain fade into nothing but an unpleasant memory. Ino could do it.

Yeah. Ino could, come to think of it. That sounded right. Shikamaru and Ino… her soft heart and fiery temper would keep him always on his toes, away from brooding thoughts, distracted by her charm, her wit, her beauty. They deserved each other in a way nobody else ever could. Shika could love her; even if she was a girl, he didn't judge people based on anything but their hearts, never had. Chouji could have fallen for her himself, if he'd ever dared to think of her that way.

As Shikamaru pleads with Ino to come out, Chouji loses himself in the idea. Ino's slender body snaked around Shikamaru's in the milk-white light of dawn, her perfect lips pressing a smile to Shikamaru's palm. Somewhere an infant cries; he rolls his black eyes at her, but curls up to get out of bed anyway. She thanks him with an impish grin and falls back on the pillows, eyes and lips promising good things upon his return. Cho-something, the baby would be. A perfect tribute to a woefully imperfect man – but time smooths the edges off all memories. They would remember whatever it was they found good in him, and he wouldn't be around to butcher their pleasant reveries. It was the best of all possible solutions.

He would be gone, Ino would comfort Shikamaru, and the two would fall in love. It was perfect.

Chouji is startled by a muttered oath; the gagging has stopped, and the shower is running.

Shikamaru's bony hands clench into white-knuckled fists as he stands helpless outside the locked door. He can neither enter nor make her come out without waking the rest of the household, and powerlessness has never been something with which Shikamaru deals especially well. He paces cagily back and forth, muttering darkly to himself.

Chouji watches tiredly, wondering at Shikamaru's energy. The black-headed nin's eyes are bloodshot, the delicate lids nearly as black as Gaara's had once been, but his movements are as quick and precise as lightning in a black cloud. His narrow jaw works anxiously at grinding his teeth as he waits for Ino to emerge. Finally he stops, leans against the wall, and crosses his arms over his belly. There he rests, sour-faced, with his eyes closed.

It doesn't last long. Within moments he is chewing pensively on a knuckle, staring with inhuman focus on the thin sliver of light that escapes from underneath the bathroom door.

Chouji makes a small sound of protest.

As a child, Shikamaru had often gnawed his knuckles when troubled, occasionally to the point of drawing blood. Chouji had believed he'd grown out of it.

"Shikamaru, don't," he chides softly, worried.

Narrowed eyes slide incredulously toward him, but otherwise, Shikamaru is utterly rigid, scarcely breathing. His finger stays clamped loosely in his perfect teeth, between slack lips. Chouji flinches, certain he has offended, unsure of how he could have done so. The two old friends stare at one another, motionless, until finally, nostrils flaring and jaw trembling, Shikamaru gasps, a noisy wheeze that catches in his chest.

He sinks to the floor with his face in his hands, barely able to contain his laughter. With an absurd snort, he manages to lunge for the pillow that is still on the floor. Recumbent on the hardwood, the lithe body shakes with alarming grunts of poorly suppressed mirth.

"Sh… Shikamaru?" Bewildered, half-afraid he's driven his friend to lunacy, Chouji babbles his apologies. Shikamaru is the most even-tempered person Chouji has ever met; the hysterical boy on the floor is a stranger.

Before tonight, though others have assured him that it has happened, Chouji had never seen the black-eyed nin weep. The only emotions he has ever expressed in Chouji's presence have been mild, mostly passionless things: amusement, affection, pleasure, frustration, regret, annoyance. Joy, heartbreak, exhilaration, rage – these always seemed beyond the scope of Shikamaru's emotional repertoire.

Until very recently, anger had been a chilly, slow-moving thing, and even now, he grapples with his sudden irritability as soon as it flares, dispersing it with the same cold logic that had once smothered his aggravations entirely. Wry chuckles and amused snickers served for his laughter. Even his smile is not immune to the moderating effects of his towering reason; for as long as Chouji can remember, to the earliest days of their innocence, it has been tinged with irony.

Chouji can't even identify the emotion that has laid him prone on Chouji's floor, face down in a pillow to muffle his voice.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, tears burning his eyes, wishing he knew why he was apologizing. "Shikamaru, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

He covers his face in his hands, wishing Ino would come out, wishing she would make Shikamaru stop.

Finally, the muffled howling subsides. Shikamaru lies spent on the cushion for a long moment, panting, before he is able to get to his knees. Resting his hands on his thighs, he slows his breathing, calming himself before raising his face.

He is smiling. The familiar irony is there, in a quirk of the corner of his mouth, but the black eyes, always so level, are very warm.

Tears of what can only be mirth stream from the corners of his eyes, as he presses the back of his hand to his mouth, and Chouji is now certain his friend has gone insane.

Shikamaru sniffs and exhales, a relieved sound, and chuckles softly. "I thought," he says, breathing heavily, "I told you to quit apologizing."

"Sh… Shika…?"

Letting out an explosive breath, Shikamaru clambers into Chouji's bed, careful not to jostle his injured teammate, and settles back against the wall at Chouji's feet. "You are completely hopeless, do you know that?" He clasps Chouji's bare foot in his hand. "Thank all that's holy," he adds fervently.

Chouji gingerly attempts to pull his foot back; Shikamaru squeezes, refusing to relinquish the member.

"Ino's right," he says, relaxed now, for the first time all night. His thumb finds the tendon that runs along the middle of Chouji's foot, and begins to stroke it firmly. "It is going to be okay. No matter how fucked up things are right now, you're still you, somewhere in there." He taps Chouji's calf. "I was beginning to wonder."

"Shikamaru," Chouji replies, voice breaking with confusion, weariness, and frustration, "I don't understand."

"It's not funny if I have to explain it. Maybe it's not that funny at all. I'm so damn tired I probably can't tell." The bony fingers continue to massage his captive foot. "It's just… you could have killed yourself tonight, and you don't see anything malapropos in lecturing me about chewing on a finger," he explains gently.

"It's not funny, on the one hand, but somehow..." He makes a sound half-laughter and half-sigh. "It's just you, Chouji. It's just typical. You never have had any sense of irony."

A shiver runs up Chouji's spine, but he can't decide whether its nausea or pleasure that's making his body tremble, and Shikamaru squeezes his foot again.

Chouji blinks in surprise before flushing furiously. "You've got enough for both of us," he mutters, embarrassed.

Shikamaru chuckles again. "That's probably true," he agrees easily. "But it isn't just that. It's not the first time you've been an inch from death and still be more worried about my goddamn finger. You remember? Back then?"

Shikamaru had broken his finger to escape an illusion, when they had gone after Sasuke, and had been almost infuriated when Chouji had expressed concern over the injured digit.

"Don't apologize," Shikamaru advises, as Chouji opens his mouth to do so. "You break my heart every time you do, so don't." There is no ire in his voice, no imperative, only a quiet restfulness that makes Chouji's eyelids feel even heavier.

Chouji bites his lip. Shikamaru lays his head against the wall, still massaging the big foot.

"Chouji."

His foot twitches.

"It really is going to be okay." Reaching for Chouji's other foot, Shikamaru squeezes the widest part of it firmly before rubbing circles into the ball, bringing on a new wave of sensitivity and nausea.

_You don't deserve this._

He shudders, earning a frown from the other shinobi.

"Tell me what you're thinking."

Jaw clenched, Chouji shakes his head.

"I want to know," he insists. The sun is streaming in with birdsong; the day is new. Shikamaru, too, is new, is more at ease than Chouji has seen him in ages, lethargic and wry and thoughtful, like he used to be. The edge is off; Shikamaru's confession, however inappropriately timed, however misplaced, has lifted some burden Chouji hadn't even known his friend was shouldering. It's incomprehensible.

"Why…" Chouji coughs; his throat feels dry. "Why don't you understand that you deserve better?"

He braces himself for a sharp rebuttal, which does not come.

Shikamaru's grip on his foot eases, just a little. "Because there isn't anyone better. Not..." He flushes a little. Shikamaru rarely bothers to be embarrassed. "Not for me. It's always been you. I just wish I'd known…" He coughs, too.

"It doesn't matter," he continues softly, after a moment. "I know now. Even if it's just a possibility, even if we can't pursue it yet, it's not something I'm going to let slip away just because you don't know your own worth. You're exactly what I…" He pauses, considers. "You're what I need. Whether you know it or not."

A small, discontented sound rumbles in his throat. "I just wish I knew what _you_ needed right now. Ino seems to." He glares at the bathroom door, or, more accurately, at the girl showering behind it. "Clever bitch. I know what she's up to."

He doesn't elaborate, and Chouji is too concerned with fighting the nausea Shikamaru's unexpected demonstration of affection provoked. This time, he will control his body – like Ino said, he can manage a panic attack if he needs to. Retching will only upset his team, and there's nothing in his stomach to expel, anyway.

Which feels good, he muses vaguely. There's very little that feels as good as an empty stomach, anymore. Shikamaru's hands on his feet might feel as good, if he deserved to have them there. But a painfully empty belly tastes like accomplishment, and chili pepper Chouji's approval is sweet. He imagines the fat thing collapsing in on itself, sinking back behind his ribs, hallow and hard.

Like a stray cat. Don't feed it and it will go away.

_Not enough._ Chili pepper Chouji hisses into his ear. _You should be running. You couldn't fasten the chain even two links more, but you let Ino pour that juice down your throat. You broke your promise, fat ass, twice. An apple and a fucking juice bottle were more important than your solemn word. You said you wouldn't eat until you could close it. You promised. You promised you'd run through the nights until you got to seventy kilos. Liar._

The bathroom door swings inward, and a very pale, very drawn Ino appears in the doorway.

"Took me awhile to understand what you were doing," Shikamaru says wryly. He's set Chouji's feet aside, but remains comfortably ensconced on the edge of the bed.

Ino nods, and the morning sun makes the water droplets in her hair dance. "I knew you'd figure it out," she replies hoarsely. Chouji's eyes water – her throat must hurt as badly as his does.

"I should have thought of it first."

Ino manages half a smile, but it falters as she sways unsteadily on her feet. Cursing matter-of-factly, as she always does on the rare occasions when she does curse aloud, she shuffles ungracefully to the bed. Her legs fold beneath her, but Shikamaru slides fluidly from the bed to catch her. He slips her arm up over his shoulders and walks her around the bed, so that she can resume the ugly business she had begun. She stands above Chouji for a moment, resting on Shikamaru's arm.

Chouji closes his eyes. Ino is drained and exhausted, and it's his fault.

"Are you okay?" He can't help himself from asking. Worrying about his teammates is as involuntary as breathing.

"Better than you are," she observes. "But I won't stay that way if you don't start taking better care of yourself."

He passes a hand over his eyes, and shakes his head. He doesn't understand.

"I know you heard me just now," she says quietly. "I made myself sick. Because you did."

His eyes snap open. Ino pulls her arm back from Shikamaru's neck and lowers herself carefully to sit on the bed beside him.

Ino's clear blue eyes are very calm, but there's a dangerous current flashing behind them. She peers down at him, somehow kind and fierce all at once. Like a mother tiger. "I know you don't want to eat, Chouji. I know you think you deserve to be hungry and exhausted and in pain. I know you feel worthless and useless right now, and because of that, doing anything good for yourself makes you feel guilty and self-indulgent. Maybe it is anorexia. Maybe it's something else. I'll find out. And I'll spend the rest of my life convincing you you're wrong, if that's what it takes.

"But you don't want professional help, and you don't want your parents involved. And the only way I'm willing to leave them out of this is if you care for yourself properly. I _know_ you'll take care of yourself if the alternative means hurting me."

"No!" Chouji shoves himself up roughly in the bed. Black shadow swirls around him, freezing him in place.

"Stop that," Shikamaru grumbles, carefully lowering him back to the white sheets. "It's troublesome. Lie down, or this time I just won't release you. Takes more chakra to make the binding than to hold it." He glances back at Ino, waiting for her to continue.

Chouji strains uselessly against Shikamaru's shadow, sobbing openly now.

"This is how it has to be right now, Chou-kun," she says, almost sadly. "You'll eat, or I won't. If you cut yourself, so will I. Train until you pass out, if you want, but I'll be right beside you on the ground. And if you lose any more weight, I will to, kilo for kilo. You might be willing to risk your career, and even our team, over what you're struggling with right now. You won't risk my safety. It's the only trump card I have left. Maybe I'm a manipulative bitch for using it, but I will make you healthy again, Chou. One way or another."

"Well played," Shikamaru notes softly. His hand hesitates over his weeping friend, but Ino's there, and their new intimacy is still too new to share. He returns to his perch on the end of the bed.

Ino rubs her throat absently. "Don't make me take up smoking, too, please. I've got other fish to fry right now, but I swear to God, Shikamaru, you're next on my list."

Shikamaru would argue, but she shakes her head to silence him. "Asuma told me to take care of you two," she says firmly, furrowing her narrow blonde brows. Bright tears appear in the corners of her eyes. "If this is the only way to do it, well, that's fine with me. I won't say goodbye again."

The blue eyes are narrowed and resolute, and the little nose is wrinkled in an angry snarl, but beneath them, Ino's lips tremble. "I _won't_ be left behind."

The black-haired nin's lips clamp shut; Chouji wants to argue, but can't force words past the tears.

She exhales heavily. "Alright then. So long as we understand each other."

She rests her hand on Chouji's belly, giving him a moment to adjust to the touch of her cool fingers before slipping his shirt up to continue the torture.

"It'll be okay, boys."

She believes it. The warmth in her eyes is the glow of faith, steady and confident. He can't always tell when she's lying, but the shine of her indomitable will is unmistakable; she can't fake that.

"Whatever happens," she says, tucking Chouji's hair behind his ear with her free hand, "if it's the three of us, it's going to be okay." She smiles, very faintly, glancing up at Shikamaru. "We've always been able to get through anything together. Asuma may be gone, but he didn't leave us helpless. Let's just get through tonight, and it'll get better from here. I promise."


	11. Chapter 11

I was so unhappy with this chapter that I had to tear it down and rework it altogether. I'm still not completely satisfied, but I think it's a little more coherent, now. Let me know what you think – and thanks for reading!

* * *

"Oh, hell." Shikamaru's whisper is grainy and rough, his eyes bloodshot and tired. He sounds bitter. Ino sympathizes silently, also frustrated. It's only been a few hours since they tucked Chouji into his bed, but already he has bled through his bandages. Bright red dots their sleeping teammate's sheets, and blood has stained his shirt a darker shade of black.

The painful process of reducing Chouji's hernias had left ugly, livid marks on flesh this is already badly contused, and, despite Ino's best efforts, it must have also aggravated the lacerations raking across his belly. Peeling Chouji's shirt up, her fingers brush the now-bloody sarashi. The relatively minor wounds she'd left for Shikamaru to tend could not account for the blood that saturated Chouji's dressings and clothes. Her ministrations must have wrenched open some of the deeper cuts she had attempted to seal with chakra in the woods. That; or she had reopened older injuries, cuts that had scabbed over and tried to heal. Or both.

At least the two incisions she had sliced herself were still neatly sealed.

Ino had not intended to repair the two irreducible hernias. The surgeries were simple, but it seemed only logical that she should wait to perform them until her chakra had regenerated and her mind was cleared. But the night had taken a toll on her, and, knuckle deep in Chouji's injuries, she'd realized she couldn't face it again. Fully aware of the pain her sharp, probing fingers must have caused as she kneaded and poked and shoved her friend's insides into place, she know she couldn't hurt him again. Adrenaline alone spurred her forward, keeping her strong, urgency preempting aversion. She would have lacked the fortitude to add her own cuts to his, once that rush passed.

Her neat, precise handiwork had stood in sharp contrast to his ragged, self-inflicted wounds: two slim red lines low on the left side of his belly, well below his navel. Alarmingly low, but Ino hadn't trusted herself to even think the word "pelvic" without giggling hysterically. Shikamaru had almost refused to let her do it, until she dragged his hand onto his friend's stomach and below the waistband of his pants, and ran his thin, reluctant fingers over the ominous swelling beneath Chouji's skin. Red as a fire poker left in the hearth, Shikamaru had retreated to the far side of the room while she applied a local anesthetic, watching wild-eyed as she worked.

Sealing them cost her much of what was left of her chakra, but these two seem to be the only wounds that hadn't bled through their dressings during the few hours she had managed to sleep. Ino bites her lips against a curse.

"Maybe we should have taken him to the hospital."

A sideways glance at Shikamaru warns her not to pursue the thought. His jaw works angrily; she can hear teeth grinding. For better or worse, this is their crisis, and they're going to deal with it.

"Then we need to get this cleaned up," she observes, surrendering. Chouji doesn't stir, once again in thrall to her sleep jutsu. She makes a mental note to teach the genjutsu to Shikamaru, when she has the opportunity. Though common enough among clans like Ino's, bred for espionage and reconnaissance, Ino has a feeling the inventive genius could find a whole new set of uses for it.

The aforementioned genius grunts an acknowledgement, and says quietly, "Let's not wake him. There's no telling when he last got any real sleep."

"You don't have much chakra left," Ino points out, trying to avoid sounding condescending by raising her voice uncertainly at the end of the remark.

The now-ruined sarashi had been wrapped only with Shikamaru's help; Chouji had lost the fight to keep his eyes open long before Ino finished treating him. Shikamaru had used his shadow to manipulate Chouji's body into standing up for her. Shadow imitation would be the simplest solution to their problem now, too, but the lassitude in Shikamaru's voice makes Ino's heart ache.

Shikamaru seats himself on the bed and rubs his eyes tiredly, a gesture that is somehow both jaded and child-like. "You may have to help, but we'll manage," he says. "Get the IV."

The bag from the hospital hangs hidden on the curtain rod, behind the drapes, nearly emptied of its medicine. She could have fed her starving friend intravenously also, if she'd been thinking. She had been so distracted with tests and numbers, and concealing her foray into the hospital, that she'd missed the opportunity.

He needs to eat, anyway, she reasons, fumbling under the bed for the first aid kit. Not just to be fed. He needs to get used to the feel and the texture and taste of food again, roll it on his tongue and down his throat, and remember how to do it without hating himself. Remember how to enjoy it. Forced feedings won't solve his underlying problems.

Ino's conscience isn't quite satisfied with this defense, but she resolves not to worry about it. It's spilled milk, so she hands her teammate an adhesive bandage and puts it out of her mind.

"Here. Put that on as soon as I take this out, and then hold his arm straight up. Pressure on the bandage. Okay?" Shikamaru nods and strips the film from the adhesive, dropping the trash on the floor. Loosening the tape on Chouji's arm, Ino gently pulls the IV catheter free. She disposes of the evidence while Shikamaru holds his friend's arm as instructed.

"Did you sleep at all?" Ino asks softly, after a few minutes. She slips her hand into Chouji's upraised one, patting Shikamaru's to signal that he should let go, and lowers the big arm to the bed.

Shikamaru shrugs.

"Not a wink," she surmises, unsurprised. A faint shake of his head is all the answer he gives.

An hour after the sun rose, Chouji had been safely swaddled in his bed sheets. His teammates had intended, naively, as it turned out, to leave him that way for as long as he would sleep. Swiftly and quietly, they attended their own needs, finally having a moment to spare for themselves. While Shikamaru showered, Ino put out the breakfast she had purchased for them, though, per the ultimatum she'd given Chouji, she ate nothing. Shikamaru didn't look particularly pleased about eating alone; neither did he eat as much as Ino would have liked. He held his peace, though, pressing his lips tightly together when she slipped downstairs to put the two untouched food away.

A hastily arranged futon lay on the floor when she returned, messy and uninviting. A pillow hung crookedly off one end, the sheets bunched awkwardly at the corners, and the comforter wasn't even tucked under the edges of the thin mattress. Shikamaru's habitual sleeping arrangements were worse; he often forewent sheets altogether, too lazy to wash them, too fastidious to sleep on soiled linens. Why a bare (and presumably equally soiled) mattress should be more attractive than dirty sheets remains a mystery to his team.

Without a word to the suddenly solicitous Shikamaru, Ino tossed the covers back and climbed into the makeshift bed. She had been the genius's friend long enough to recognize an unspoken apology when she saw one. He didn't like what she was doing. He didn't like himself for letting her do it. But he had nothing better up his sleeves, and he was desperate. Ino understood. He could have no more voiced such sentiments than a fish could fly, and Ino understood that, too.

As she arranged the covers more neatly around herself, the taciturn shinobi curled up on a chair where he could see his team and the door, keeping watch for whatever might be coming. An anxious vigilance in his eyes ought to have worried her; instead she felt the sluggish serenity she often felt after a successful mission, a quiet denouement to troubled days. Within moments, her eyes grew heavy, and she slept dreamlessly until the heavy footfalls of Chouji's father wakened her.

The big man hadn't trouble himself with trying to be quiet as he went to check on his ailing son. There was no point to it; Chouji normally woke to the slightest of sounds. But the noisy approach of the Akimichi patriarch gave Chouji's uninvited guests a chance to survey their surroundings, to reassure themselves that they'd hidden all evidence of the preceding night. Before Chouza even opened the door, both had examined the room in a glance and were skillfully feigning sleep.

It wasn't the first time Chouza had stumbled upon his son's teammates taking refuge in his home for the night (though, until now, never together). Ino slept here at least once every couple of weeks, and she knows Shikamaru sometimes falls asleep here entirely by accident, lulled to slumber by Chouji's comforting presence. Chouji was in no condition to be comforting others tonight, but Chouza could no more turn away a friend in need than his son could. The gigantic, gentle man swept a watchful, worried gaze over the three of them. Then he left, rather more quietly than he had entered.

When the footsteps died away, Shikamaru slid bonelessly from his chair, just as Ino rose from her futon on the floor, and they had discovered Chouji's bloodied sheets together.

Now Shikamaru plucks at the bloody shirt, contemplating the problem before them. "I think there's yukata in the middle drawer," he says, gesturing vaguely at the dresser near the bathroom. "That'll be easiest, if we aren't going to wake him up."

"I've never arranged a man's kimono before, you know," Her tone is dubious, but she goes to the dresser and opens the drawer, anyway.

"It's easier than a woman's. You'll do fine." Shikamaru gives her a very brief, faint smile. Then he exhales slowly, not realizing that his nervousness is apparent to the perceptive blonde across the way, he grips Chouji's arm with one hand and cups the back of the big shinobi's neck with the other, and pulls his friend up into his arms. He shifts a little, probably to hide how badly his hands are shaking. But Ino notices, with an inappropriately-timed, entirely delicious fluttering in her stomach.

_Who knew two boys could be so sweet together?_ She marvels at them privately, rifling through the kimonos in Chouji's dresser. Stealing another glance, she bites down on a smile. Chouji is slumped against Shikamaru's chest, his face pressed unawares into his friend's neck, which is suspiciously pink. Tangled locks of honey-red hair tumble wildly over Shikamaru's narrow shoulder. If Chouji's arms weren't hanging limply at his sides, it might have been an embrace. Shikamaru's hands tremble violently as he slides the soiled shirt up Chouji's back and over his head.

Ino swallows an unexpectedly girlish urge to giggle and pointedly turns her attention to Chouji's clothes. It isn't cute, she reminds herself sternly. There's nothing cute about Chouji's injuries or his suffering. There's nothing laughable about the attraction Shikamaru has worn his nerves raw to conceal, or the very real disdain to which he will be vulnerable when the truth comes out.

Maybe that's part of it, she thinks, her mind taking a serious bent. She fingers a pale fawn-colored hadajuban with cream stripes around the edges. Maybe that's part of why she wants so badly to be a part of them. They won't be able to protect themselves from the idiots who won't appreciate the beauty of their deep, generous friendship and, gods willing, the sweet awkwardness of a first romance. Ino won't stand for anyone's disrespect toward her team, no matter how her half-formed plans play out, but dammit, they'll need her. They'll need her strength and her convictions and her defiance. Like they always have. As badly as she needs Chouji's compassion to temper her egotism and Shikamaru's reason to offset her impetuousness.

"Ino, just grab one!" Shikamaru is fussing with the sarashi now, trying futilely to finish what Ino had started. He's frustrated, in so many senses of the word, and she isn't helping.

She leaves the pretty hadajuban in the drawer, and picks up a plain, navy blue yukata, a very dark, nearly black navy that will hopefully hide any further accidents. Pulling it free, she notes the quality of the stitching, realizing with a cringe just how expensive the garment must be. Worthy of a pillar family. She puts it back.

"Sorry," she whispers apologetically. "I don't want to risk ruining his good clothes." Shikamaru groans exaggeratedly, but says nothing. Chouji's eye for beautiful kimonos was something Ino had noticed years ago. A vice they shared, though neither had much opportunity to wear their prizes. She smiles at the fleeting idea of shopping for kimonos with him, with a bored, impatient Shikamaru grumbling irritably nearby.

Another moment and she's found a suitably inexpensive kimono, a deep forest green yukata, cotton and comfortable and a bit shabby around the edges. A poem about a mountain and a crane scrawls across it in bold, elegant black calligraphy. It will do almost as well as the navy to hide any blood that might seep through it.

Shikamaru has the sleeping Chouji on his feet now, carefully walking backward to move the bigger man to the bathroom. Evidently he'd given up on the sarashi; the blood had congealed, sticky and gummy, and all but glued the bandages together. It will be easier to cut it off than to unwrap it.

Ino lays the kimono atop the dresser and strips the bed, throwing the comforter over the bare mattress to hide the fact that the sheets were gone. The stained linens she carries into the bathroom and dumps into the bathtub, along with those she'd set to soak the night before. Shikamaru, by comparison, had hidden the last batch of bloody linens in the closet.

Brilliant strategist. Tactical mastermind. Unparalleled genius. Lazy bum.

Shikamaru shakes with the effort of holding Chouji erect, too tired to hold the jutsu and determined to do it anyway. It's considerably more difficult for him to force a body to move than it is to hold a struggling target. Muscle isn't worth much without momentum or chakra behind it, so once Shikamaru has an enemy still, holding him there isn't really all that difficult. These days he could do it almost indefinitely. Forcing them to move is another story, but so far, it's never occurred to a restrained enemy to simply relax and let gravity fight their battle for them. Minute muscle spasms could never match the pull of gravity on so much dead weight. Chouji is still a big man, despite his efforts, and Shikamaru has manipulated his limp body like a puppet on strings three times in the last twelve hours.

Ino takes scissors from the first aid kit and deftly cuts the sarashi and bandages away, baring the shredded belly. Blood swells and oozes; she uses a minor medical jutsu to bind the deepest parts of the gashes once again. It's exhausting. Normally she's content with the fact that she doesn't have the chakra stores for serious medicine, even though Sakura does. Today, she wishes she was a little more like her salmon-haired rival.

A small sound, angry and helpless and frightened, gurgles at the back of Shikamaru's throat. Ino pretends not to hear it. Instead she bustles, quick and businesslike, swiping professionally at blood, tying off clean dressings, and winding a fresh sarashi around Chouji's waist. It's the work of a few minutes to hide the red scores in his discolored flesh, another few minutes to tie the sarashi and hide the worst of the damage altogether.

Clinical. Detached. Efficient. If Shikamaru's hysteria is close enough to the surface that he can't stifle a single sob, she can't allow herself to show the slightest anxiety. He's barely coping as it is.

"Ino…" Shikamaru is gray-faced, spitting her name out from behind gritted teeth. Not that she can see much of his face. He is turned away from her, though not far enough that she can't see the tracks of tears on his cheeks.

"I'm almost done," she promises. She maneuvers Chouji's heavy arms into the sleeves of the yukata, knowing Shikamaru barely has the strength left to keep himself standing, never mind getting Chouji to dress himself.

Then she's stuck, because up close, it's obvious that Chouji's pants are nearly as soaked with blood as his shirt had been.

She exhales sharply. No anxiety. No indecision. No hesitation. Quickly arranging the yukata, she ties the belt high and loose, slipping her hands inside to protect the front of the garment from the stained trousers.

"What the hell are you doing?" Shikamaru hisses at her. Her boldness surprises him so much that he forgets for a moment about the telltale glitter of tears on his face as he stares in blatant disbelief. Why it should bother him any more than watching her cut just inches away from… well… Ino decides not to wonder why.

She ignores him instead, aware for the first time of a very real heat in her face as she fumbles for Chouji's belt.

"Ino!"

"They have to come off, Shikamaru," she says, her voice much steadier than her hidden hands. "There's no point putting a clean yukata over bloody pants."

"But you – "

"I'd let you do it, but you're a little preoccupied," she says, more sharply than she intends. She bites her tongue, irritated with herself. "Relax," she goes on, better regulating her tone. "We're all adults here." The pinkness she feels coloring her cheeks belies the truth, but she plunges ahead regardless.

It's almost ridiculously easy. The moment the belt is undone, the too-loose trousers slip down of their own accord. Ino pulls the kimono back just enough to ensure that the blood hadn't soaked through to his undergarments – thankfully not – and readjusts the obi to a proper position. Shikamaru raises his feet, one by one, and Ino pulls the pants away from Chouji's mirroring ankles. The trousers can't be bleached, but she drops them in the sink with his shirt, hoping that at least the scent can be washed away.

"I've got him, Shikamaru," she murmurs, slipping a careful arm around Chouji's waist and draping his arm across her neck. The exhausted genius glares at her, but cannot hide the tremors rocking his over-exerted body. With a grunt of relief, he relinquishes his jutsu. Chouji's knees buckle as he sags against Ino. A powerful sense of satisfaction, something proud and fierce and unexpected surges in her; she feels strong, shouldering her partner's weight with ease. Strong, and important, and useful – the way Chouji should always feel. But he doesn't. Why?

A shiver of an answer tingles at the base of her neck as she carries Chouji to his bed. Her team was imploding; she had been trying to make them understand that for months. But maybe she wasn't the only one who had seen it.

The thing is, Chouji had been okay. Of the three of them, Chouji had been the healthy one. Shikamaru had taken Asuma's death hardest; though they all loved and missed their teacher, Asuma had been Shikamaru's reliable shougi opponent, his biggest supporter, and the only person to whom he had confided his feelings for Chouji. Ino believed she'd laid Asuma to rest within her soul, but mission after mission, she'd watched her team with growing fear. Her sensei's death exemplified how easily everything could go wrong. How easy it would be to lose them. After the war, after clear and present danger had subsided, her anxious psyche had latched upon cigarettes and calories as subtler threats to obsess over.

She knew – of _course_ she fucking knew – that she wasn't thinking clearly. The day Chouji had fallen, and neither of his teammates had the presence of mind even to get him to the hospital, she'd taken herself to Psych voluntarily. Such an act of gross neglect was unacceptable – though, thank everything holy, she'd refused to go into detail about what had triggered her decision to seek assistance. She hadn't wanted to admit such a failing.

It was no great black mark to go to Psych willingly. It became a career-ender when Psych had to come to you. Besides, the Yamanaka often sought counseling. Their minds were too exposed to allow for any fragility. Her unique gifts, and equally unique weaknesses, warranted some leniency where her mental state was concerned. The fact that she had recognized her anxiety as a weakness spoke, counter-intuitively but definitively, to her soundness of mind.

But perhaps Chouji had known before she did. Maybe he had seen in her petty fears, in her nighttime visits, in her inexcusable guilt trips and machinations, just how unstable she had become. And all this time, while she ranted and raved about vegetables and trans fats, he had been trying to help her. Trying to concede to her unrealistic demands, in hopes of calming her worry. Never arguing, never chiding her. He knew she was being irrational, and he had humored her to the best of his ability. The bastard.

She sits down stiffly on the bed with him, trying not to cry. Whatever it had become, this whole disaster had started that day in at the barbeque, she is sure of it. Kind words and an open window hadn't been enough to stitch together Ino's unraveling reason. He'd decided to really try dieting, to do the only thing he could that might ease her anxiety, and… and then what?

She can imagine, but she doesn't want to. Ino has been inside enough skulls to know the ugly, cruel things people can say in the privacy of their own minds to motivate themselves. The idea of Chouji saying those kinds of things to anyone is absurd. The idea of anyone saying those kinds of things to Chouji makes rage roil, hot and black, in the most primal part of her brain.

The sudden certainty that she had been the trigger for all of this finally bursts the dam holding back her tears.

He'd done it for her, the stupid, stupid boy. She pushes the comforter roughly away, and lays the broken body down, staring at the livid red swirls on his too-pale face.

Somewhere along the way, he'd done it for Shikamaru, too. She doesn't know how she knows this; it's not something she's reasoned. It's an intuition, something she felt the moment Chouji had realized Shikamaru was pinning him down with kagemane no jutsu. There had been such devastation in his eyes, such loss. Because… because why?

She doesn't have time to think about it, because Shikamaru staggers out of the bathroom, unable to walk without supporting himself on the wall. Chouji's big hand is resting in her smaller ones, though she doesn't remember taking it. She squeezes it, before wiping her eyes as discreetly as she can.

Then she's at Shikamaru's side, sidled close, maneuvering under his arm. He opens his mouth to argue; she cuts him off.

"I can put you to bed, or you can walk with me and lie down under your own power." It's kindly said, and though Shikamaru frowns, sullen and irritable, he leans obediently on Ino. A few shaking steps take them to the futon.

"Are you going to be able to sleep, now?" Ino asks quietly, as he fumbles for the covers.

"No," he replies. "I fall asleep, won't be fifteen minutes 'fore a nightmare wakeshme up. N' point." His words are nearly incomprehensibly slurred, and Ino doubts he's fully aware of what he's telling her. He's never admitted to nightmares before.

"I can manage one more jutsu," she offers.

"Save it. Need t' think, anyway." This last trails off into silence, and he is asleep.

Ino hadn't done it. He'd simply been too drained of chakra to go any longer without rest. She drapes a blanket over him and pulls his ragged black locks free of their thong. Stifling a laugh, she sees for the first time why he never lets his hair down, even while sleeping. His hair frames his face gently, softening the angularity of his eyes and pointed chin – with his hair loose, he looks like a twelve year old kid.

The Suna kunoichi, Temari, had once confided to Ino that she thought Shikamaru was exceptionally attractive, but the desert-born shinobi had never seen him like this. Ino allows herself a moment to relish the other blonde's lack of fortune.

Then she kisses the snarled locks, gently brushing her lips to the center of his widow's peak, wishing away his looming nightmares with all her heart. The blankets are warm and beckoning, and she considers sliding into the sheets with him. He won't notice. Short of setting a fire to the futon, precious little would wake him now, beyond his own dreams. Instead she tucks the blankets around him with a twinge of regret. It wouldn't do for Chouza, or Chouji, for that matter, to find her like that, no matter how innocent it was.

Rising, grateful for the few hours of sleep she had, she returns to the bed. The comforter is still smashed up against the wall, where she had pushed it out of the way. The big shinobi slumbers, peaceful and quiet, even as Shikamaru shoves himself roughly onto his side, snorting softly behind her. She glances back, wondering if his nightmares have already begun, but he settles down, half of his face buried in the pillow, streaked with long, coarse black hair.

Turning back to Chouji, she reaches for the comforter, pausing to admire her handiwork. It is the first chance she's had to really look at Chouji, without the chain and his armor distorting his appearance, or his injuries demanding her attention.

He was… well, hell. He was damn enticing, that's what he was. Positively drool-worthy. Of course, she's always been a sucker for a sarashi, but under his massive shoulders, around the now-tapered waist, the heavy pectoral muscles that strained against it…. Few could have worn it better. And the yukata couldn't have been more flattering. The dark emerald tones of the cotton set the coppery highlights in his hair on fire, which in turn lit the dark swirls on his face, accentuating unexpectedly chiseled cheekbones. Hidden strengths, unexpected beauty – but that was Chouji, in a nutshell.

Ino sits down on the bed, shifting so that she can watch both of her boys sleep. Pulling her legs beneath her, she crosses her arms, hands gripping the shoulder opposite them, and rests her chin in the bends of her elbows.

Something had happened between the boys while she was out. When she arrived in the window, the air between them had been as heavy as the pregnant stillness before the storm, but she can't tell yet what the expectancy portends.

What she does know is that Shikamaru can no longer hide just how deeply Chouji's suffering is affecting him. The distance he'd put between himself and his team is gone, the aloofness he had affected suddenly swept away. She can see his distress and finds the unexpected openness oddly comforting.

Watching him now, she hopes that the change between the two friends is significant enough to break the stagnant melancholy that has settled on him. It's something new on which to dwell and mull over, something that isn't senseless violence and mind-numbing grief. She'll watch, because she worries anyway, and because she's nosy – but mostly she thinks Shikamaru needs time. He needs to think, to plan, to make decisions based on facts and deductions, not immediate reactions to unexpected revelations.

So Ino will focus on Chouji. Nothing matters to Shikamaru more than his partner. Showing him how dearly she also treasures their kind-hearted teammate can only appreciate her value in Shikamaru's eyes. And even if Shikamaru doesn't need her, Chouji does. What's more, he needs something from her that Shikamaru cannot provide. Like a parent with their child at the doctor's office, the best her black-eyed partner can offer their stricken friend is a hand to hold.

Whatever name is ultimately assigned to Chouji's self-destructive behavior, talking through it will be critical to overcoming it, and Shikamaru can't help him do that. He doesn't have the requisite skills to draw out Chouji's motives and fears, or the patience to argue them away if he did. Ino has no practice, but she knows Chouji as well as anyone besides Shikamaru, and she will use his more intimate knowledge to its fullest advantage. Talented and empathetic, she is a powerfully manipulative creature. Aside from the professionals in Psych, there is no one better equipped to change Chouji's misconceptions about himself.

She will talk things over with Shikamaru, over the black coffee he pretends to like. He'll listen, think about it for a while, and offer a genuinely useful insight she can use later. And when she draws on his deductions to reason Chouji out of his self-loathing, he'll be there – of course he'll be there – and he'll see that she listened. He'll realize that, together, they were able to help Chouji. That she is just as vital a resource to him as Chouji is, and just as uniquely equipped to love their big, gentle teammate as he is. And that will be a whole new dynamic he'll have to ponder.

These are the first moves in a game Ino is looking forward to playing, but her role must be small, for now. She will gently, gently twine her life into theirs', all but imperceptibly strengthening their relationships, touching more frequently, listening more attentively, flirting too subtly for either inexperienced boy to realize what she is doing. She has proven that her feelings for them run deeper than the simple bonds of a team; for now her demonstrativeness can be attributed to relief.

But first things first.

Ino pulls her mind reluctantly away from her schemes, and fixes her gaze on the shinobi on the bed beside her, tracing the marks on his face first with her eyes, then on a whim, with her fingertips. She must get Chouji away from the village. She's landed upon an acceptable lie to explain Chouji's extreme weight loss and his "illness," but the lie won't hold if his condition worsens. And whether he's battling anorexia or something else, she's knowledgeable enough a medic to know that twenty-four hour supervision, psychotherapy, a carefully directed diet, and continued medical care are necessary for his recovery. He won't get them here. Not unless they turn him over to Psych.

A breath or two stood between him and death today. Her breath, come to think of it. Whatever else he needs, she will supply it. She and Shikamaru. Fuck Psych.

They need several weeks, a month, until the color is back in his cheeks, until he's eating normally and the only evidence of his neurosis are his slimmer physique and a few scars that will fade and age. They're shinobi; no one asks too many questions about scars. Most everyone respects the fact that many scars still hurt.

None of them have taken leave since before Asuma died, before Pain invaded the village, before the war. Gods know they have it to spare. The question is whether they will be permitted to take it together, for such an extended period. Shikamaru is jounin, now, and Ino and Chouji are very nearly ready for that rank themselves. It doesn't make them exactly indispensable, but the aftermath of the war has ensured a steady stream of business for the village. A request for a month-long leave of absence, and for an entire unit, no less, is a serious one.

Of course, as Shikamaru had noted in the woods, it wasn't a secret that the three teammates weren't at the top of their game right now. Their teamwork was suffering – and that was tragic, because they once had the best fucking teamwork in Konoha. Maybe in the five nations. Now the Hokage bites her tongue doubtfully when ordering the trio to pursue B-rank missions, though she knows as well as anyone of what the Ino-Shika-Cho trick hand was once capable.

Tsunade knew they were struggling as a team. Everyone knew it.

She also knows, to some greater or lesser degree, that each of them individually is struggling. The mental stability of Konoha's shinobi is of interest to any authority figure; doubly so for one with Tsunade's medical expertise. And whether or not the hard-ass would actually say it aloud, she's quite fond of each of the Konoha Eleven. Three very, very good reasons for her to keep abreast of their personal performance.

Ino knows. After all, Tsunade herself had prescribed the little white pills that were supposed to help mitigate her anxiety, after she'd gone to Psych.

Shikamaru may have managed to partially conceal his depression, or at least its severity. He hasn't been called in to be assessed by Psych, despite his obvious moodiness. Ino secretly thinks that the Psych medical shinobi simply can't decide whether anything is wrong with him. Few beyond Ino, Chouji, and Shikamaru's immediate family could identify the difference between brooding, mulling, and daydreaming. His sharply-appointed face settles into the same intent, far-off look. His fingers form the same thoughtful triangle. And, as far as Ino knows, she and Chouji are the only ones to have been on the receiving end of Shikamaru's uncharacteristic ill temper. Shikamaru may have scraped by with his record intact.

But if the last surviving Sannin hasn't noticed Chouji's downward spiral, it is only because she hasn't gotten to the report yet. Somebody had noticed; somebody had realized that a young man from the Akimichi clan was looking suspiciously trim and anything but fit. Chouji's parents could have alerted her already. Or one of their friends – Sakura, or Naruto, someone who wouldn't realize the trouble their big mouths could cause.

The Hokage knows something. Ino has no illusions on this point. But the deceptively youthful-looking granny has dealt with her own share of mental volatility. Surely an anorexic Akimichi scion is no more useless, nor ironic, than a medical kunoichi who once could not bear the sight of blood. (This insight Ino intends to keep to herself, of course. Unless the Hokage knows more than Ino hopes she does, there's no reason to bring it up.)

She's still mulling over what Tsunade might know, or might have guessed, when Shikamaru bolts upright on the futon. His eyes are wide, staring, but as sightless as a blind man, bloodshot and blank behind thick strands of unkempt hair. He'd slept all of an hour.

"That didn't look pleasant," she observes mildly. A very thin line exists between sympathy and pity; she avoids offending him.

He shakes his head in affirmation. "No. Didn't mean to steal your bed."

Ino smiles. His voice is rough and sleepy, and there's an intimacy in that – how many people know how raspy Shikamaru's voice is when he first wakes? His parents, Asuma, Chouji. And her.

"I helped you into it," she reminds him. "Don't worry about it. Go back to sleep."

An almost comical grimace twists his mouth. "Not gonna happen." _Not after that_, she hears, unspoken. "Besides," he adds, "we've got some plans to make."

Pensive eyes, dark with sleep and secrets, wander behind her for a brief moment before snapping back to her face. Ino presses her lips together against a smile. She's just spent the better part of an hour planning. Maybe for once she's a step or two ahead of him.

She won't say so. It would be annoying if she were wrong, so she spreads her hands ingenuously. "I'm all ears, if you've got any ideas, genius."

"Several. I'm hoping I don't have to put any of them into play. Best case scenario, we ask for leave and we get it. Then all we worry about is where to go, and how to get there with Chouji injured."

"He'll be okay, as long as we take it slow. It will probably take the Hokage a couple of days, minimum, to grant a leave request. He'll be alright to move by then. God knows he's traveled with worse injuries than these." She dismisses Shikamaru's concern with a wave of her hand. "But say we don't get leave."

"Then I have to get creative. Which I can do. It's troublesome, so I'd rather not." He rubs his face and seems surprised at the shadow of stubble there. "If I have to," he admits, "I can probably manufacture a mission for us. I've got some contacts in the right places, friends I made during the war. It wouldn't be too hard to get one of them to ask for the Ino-Shika-Cho formation specifically."

Big surprise – he's twenty steps ahead, preparing for the worst case scenario. Ino's plans had centered around conning Tsunade into granting leave for a full three-man unit.

"I hope it doesn't come to that," Ino answers, pursing her lips. "The fewer lies we have to tell, the better." She flashes a smile with no warmth in it. "I can be pretty persuasive when I want to be. I think I'm going to go put in our request. Find out how "troublesome" this is going to be."

He gestures vaguely at the world outside the window. "Be my guest. I don't want to do it." His eyes are still bleary and out of focus.

"If I go, will you sleep?"

Shikamaru scowls, but it isn't Ino he's angry with. "I can't. Can't trust him alone." He nods at Chouji's steadily rising and falling chest, and doesn't seem to notice when his gaze lingers too long on the big pectoral muscles.

Ino's eyes soften, warm, and she snaps them away, surprised at her lack of control. "He'll sleep until dinner-time, at least," she promises, glancing out at the sky. Clouds darken the horizon, blotting out what should have been a bright afternoon sun. "I know my genjutsu. And I'll be back soon. I won't go if you won't rest."

The black eyes regard her helplessly for a long moment. "I'll try."

Shikamaru didn't say anything he didn't mean. He would try.

"Well, then." She exhales a sharp huff of air, plants her feet solidly on the ground, and stands. "I'm off." Looking down at Shikamaru, she frowns. "Back to sleep, you."

Her teammate gives her half a smile for her joke, and half a glare for the order. But he lies down, eyebrows twitching irritably. Ino goes to the window with a barely repressed smile.

The window is closed, but beyond the glass, gathering clouds hang ominously on the horizon. The birds aren't singing, and even the insects are subdued. In the distance, the faintest rumbling of thunder can be heard, though there is no visible lightning. The Akimichi family has already taken up refuge in their homes; there's not a soul in sight. The wind rushes in with a promise of cold rain when Ino raises the glass to perch on the windowsill.

Glancing back, she decides she can't stand it, and that she doesn't care if Shikamaru thinks she's a busybody, or a know-it-all, or a pain-in-the-ass, manipulative, scheming, double-speaking, troublesome bitch. She likes him. She likes them both. Loves them, even, in some ways. And damn it, they are going to get what they need, whether they like it or not.

She flicks a few seals in Shikamaru's direction, and waits until he starts to snore before slipping out of the window and into too-cool afternoon. Closing the window with a faint click, she drops down from the little ledge and takes off. She murmurs a prayer to gods she doesn't believe in as she makes her way through the rain that's beginning to splatter the streets, because a good lie isn't worth shit if the liar isn't good enough to pull it off. Ino is good. For a teenaged chuunin, she's fucking incredible, a consummate actress. Peerless – among her peers. But as she contemplates lying – even if only by omission – to Tsunade, the Fifth Hokage, granddaughter of the First and one of the great Sannin, she's only too aware that she's a frightened kid running on too little sleep and too many hormones.


	12. Chapter 12

I'm here, I'm here! I'm so sorry to keep you waiting. I've decided I'm unhappy with the flow of time in The Chain, so my plot bunnies have been multiplying in my magic hat while I've considered possible fixes. They're really slowing me down. Thanks for sticking with me, despite my rough patches.

Please note that Chapter Eleven has been heavily edited, and so you'll probably want to read through it before jumping into Shikamaru's brain here. I've also done a much less important (read: aesthetic) revision of Chapter One. Future edits loom, though, so don't be too angry with me if I'm slow getting the next Chouji chappie up.

Love you guys, thanks for reviewing!

* * *

For once, something is easy. For once, everything falls into place precisely as it ought to do, and Shikamaru hasn't had to lift a finger. Ino requested a month's furlough for herself, Akimichi Chouji, and Nara Shikamaru, and their leave was approved, just like that. Signed, stamped, and sealed by the end of the following day.

Ino has been uncharacteristically quiet about the machinations she'd used to procure such a generous vacation. The conniving, brilliantly manipulative girl takes a great deal of – admittedly justified – pride in her plots. But she knows the stakes as well as he does; whatever she's done, she hasn't deliberately revealed Chouji's personal crisis or compromised their secret. So it doesn't really matter, ultimately, and Shikamaru is resolved not to worry about it. Instead he is grateful for her underhandedness, because for once, he has no thought to spare for plans. Chouji is not Chouji, and he doesn't know what to make of it.

Persuaded to plead illness to his parents, the injured shinobi spent two tense, weary days under the watchful eyes of his teammates, confined to his bedroom on pain of being revealed. In that time, he has fallen into a silent stupor, barely acknowledging his team's efforts to rouse him. He takes direction, to a degree, sleeping when they tell him to sleep, rising when they tell him to rise. Hooded eyes stare blankly at the ground when he is spoken to; if they demand an answer, it is perfectly polite, but vague, noncommittal, toneless. It's as if he has been replaced by a poorly cast shadow clone. All the right words in all the right places, but no spirit behind them.

Even more worrisome, he had managed to slip away from them before they woke on the second morning. Ino had taken off toward the river on bare, fleet white feet, with nothing but an anguished glance at Shikamaru to tell him where she meant to go. She was unsuccessful; neither was Shikamaru able to find him on the mountain behind the Akimichi compound or at any of their other, usual haunts. They met on the outer wall, briefly, before Ino launched herself onto the eastern road, which led to the memorial park, to Asuma.

After two hours of searching, Shikamaru found him in an old practice field where they had occasionally sparred as children. He was training, sweating heavily in the cool morning, insensible of Shikamaru's silent approach. Shikamaru moved in and among the long shadows of early morning, knowing he should intervene, but loath to do so.

As he crept along the tree-line that edged the field, Chouji trained, plunging into deep push-ups with his feet braced against a tree, half a meter above the ground. Again and again he lowered himself, seemingly without effort, until his breast nearly touched the earth beneath him. The thin tee-shirt hid his injured belly, but the sweat-drenched jersey showed the thick muscle in his back and shoulders to its fullest advantage. Short black trousers, ones he probably hadn't fit into since he was a genin, clung to his ass and his legs, and Shikamaru melted into dim forest, satiating a voyeuristic urge that he had seldom had opportunity to indulge.

Ino must have hidden Chouji's gear, because Chouji hadn't exercised in anything but armor since they were fifteen, a proclivity that drove his secret admirer to distraction. Just as some of his childhood roundness had begun to fade, stretching over his lengthening frame and broadening shoulders, he'd forgone tee-shirts and short pants for the heavily plated armor favored by the Akimichi clan. Chouji chose to train attired as he would be for battle, effectively obscuring the new body he was developing.

It had been a security blanket of sorts, Shikamaru realizes now, a frail hope that no one would notice just how unattractive the figure beneath the loose fabric really was. Even in casual wear, Chouji hasn't revealed anything beyond his ankles or elbows since he became a chuunin. Until the night before last, Shikamaru hadn't even known that the baby-fine, blond fuzz that had covered his friend's legs and forearms in childhood had never darkened or coarsened like his own, but remained to this day a fine, golden down. The only difference was the thin line of pale hair that trailed down his belly, disappearing below the waistband of his trousers. Shikamaru's chest tightened painfully, reliving the moment that he had swept the shower curtain aside, remembering all the bizarre ways his body responded to the injured, beautiful person behind it.

Just once, Shikamaru wanted to see the powerful body in motion, without iron plates concealing it.

"Fucker," Chouji growled angrily, and for one wild moment, Shikamaru thought he'd been discovered. But Chouji steadied himself over one arm, wrapping the other tightly around his waist, and continued to perform the routine, one-handed. After a short while, he switched arms, until finally he started to shake, and came to a rest in the plank position, parallel with the ground.

"Goddammit," he gasped. "You fat bastard!" He repositioned his feet so that they rested on the ground, still braced against the tree. Then he began to drop into push-ups again, and as he muttered other ugly things to himself, Shikamaru couldn't take it any longer. He revealed himself and refused to speak as he took Chouji by the arm and guided him back to the Akimichi compound.

They laid down a new rule after that: Chouji was not to train alone. There was to be no training at all, unless it was specifically cleared with Ino, who hid her fury far better than Shikamaru had concealed his pain. Chouji's exercises had fortunately failed to aggravate his injuries, but they could have, and he should have known better.

Since then, he has never been left unsupervised, not for a moment, and his withdrawal has become even more profound.

Shikamaru wanted to confront him about it, about his silence, his diffidence. Ino wanted to wait to address Chouji's introversion until they were well away from the village, when they could exercise greater control over him, unhindered by the need for secrecy and concealment. _Please, Shikamaru, _she had pleaded, when he'd nearly lost his temper with Chouji's noncommittal grunts and empty stare. _He's willing to be led, willing to be tended. Let that be enough for today. _

She had been right, and he had conceded the point. Chouji had become pliable, unwilling to spurn his teammates' orders. He now permits Ino to remove his yukata in order to examine his injuries, which he had not been willing to do before. Every bared centimeter of skin flushes with the humiliation of it, but he doesn't fight her. He just waits, silent and humiliated, for her to finish. Shikamaru won't leave him alone, even to piss, and he endures this awkwardness with the same flushed silence, as obedient and abased as a beaten dog.

The battle to eat has been forfeited. Chouji must eat, or else Ino will not, and he will not be responsible for that. But he is stubborn, however quietly, leaving sweets and anything fried untouched on his plate, carefully disdaining anything which might be construed as unhealthful or indulgent. When Ino has consumed enough to satisfy him, he stops eating, and cannot be cajoled to take more until the next meal.

But if he had been prone to overeat in the past, it nevertheless remains that his metabolism burns hotter and faster than an ordinary man's. What was sufficient for Ino or Shikamaru is not remotely sufficient for their partner. They have been tolerant of his poor appetite, because he was injured, because they couldn't fight openly in the village, because something was, after all, better than nothing. But they can no longer afford be so permissive; after today's journey, he has lost another kilo.

Armed with their furlough papers and a small fortune between them, they had set out just after dawn today, the third morning after Ino found Chouji suffocating to death in the woods. Ino had insisted on an easy pace and frequent stops – "It's a vacation, for pity's sake!" – so they had arrived just after dark at the onsen where they are dining and passing the night.

Shikamaru is gnawing anxiously on the inside of a lip, mulling over the puzzle he's examined a thousand times already. He's perched cross-legged on a luxuriantly upholstered chair, in an equally luxuriantly furnished room that costs as much per night as he earns in a week. From this lofty vantage, he is doing exactly what he's been doing for the last three days: watching Chouji. He attempts yet again to reconcile his open, easy-going childhood friend to the taciturn youth across the room. It confounds him; he grapples with it, turning over and over in his mind, but still the pieces refuse to come together.

All that is certain is that he is humbled by Ino's superior intuition and instinctive leadership.

"You have to eat more, Chouji," she is saying mildly, without a trace of aggravation. A bowl of oyakodon lies untouched on the small table before him; he had eaten one without argument, but will not be persuaded to accept a second helping. The big shinobi has eaten a dozen times that amount in a single sitting. Shikamaru has watched him do it.

Now he kneels on the floor before the bowl, eyes downcast. His broad, unhappy face is as pale and drawn as that of a condemned man, his posture as rigidly erect as a gravestone. The honey-red head bows a little, cowed or shamed by Ino's words, but Chouji makes no move to obey her.

Ino presses the spoon into his hand. Shikamaru slowly expels his breath to avoid voicing his frustration. His small blonde friend has made it very clear that his 'outbursts' are unhelpful. She's been right about everything, so far. A controlled inhalation, another slow exhale.

"Chouji, when you weren't breathing, I didn't let you suffocate. I'm not going to let you starve, either," Ino states matter-of-factly. "Eat."

"I ate," he answers quietly.

"You ate enough for me, and I only need about a third of what you do. If you won't eat properly, I'm going to have to start making my meals proportional to yours."

"You can't!" A flash of fear, the most passion he's shown all day. He cuts himself off, shaking his head jerkily. Shikamaru can hear the rest of protest as clearly as if he'd spoken it aloud, and his hands curl up into helpless fists at his side.

"It's just one more bowl," Ino urges, still mild, still reasonable.

Her purely spurious mood will infect her teammates, if she keeps up the ruse well enough, and she knows it. Shikamaru feels its moderating effect as a subtle lid on his temper. And Chouji – if it's having the same effect on Chouji, Shikamaru can only guess what his friend's real feelings are.

"I_ can't_." Chouji's voice, already uncharacteristically subdued and rough, further cracks into a thin moan. He closes his eyes, shutting out imagined horrors.

He's begging. A scion of one of the four pillar families of Konoha, pleading to be allowed to starve himself.

Shikamaru wants to scream. He doesn't.

"Yes, you can," Ino says quietly, squeezing the hand curled around his spoon.

"I promised," Chouji whispers, eyes still tightly closed, back painfully straight.

"Why would you promise to do something that hurts everyone who cares about you?" Shikamaru asks softly, carefully, doing his utmost to keep the accusation out of the question.

Chouji is suddenly very, very still. Ino shoots Shikamaru a look that's half approval and half warning. _A good thought_, her turquoise eyes observe silently, with a single, cautious nod. She amends her unspoken praise with narrowed eyes. _Be careful._

Another long silence ensues, but when Chouji speaks again, there is a little steel in the words. "I deserve it."

"That's not true," Shikamaru disagrees, striving to keep his voice as level as Ino's. He doesn't wait for Chouji's reply. "Even if it were, is getting what you deserve more important that not hurting your friends? Your family?"

Chouji's chin sinks to his breast. Eyelids that are several shades too dark flutter closed as he braces himself, defeated. He puts the spoon in the bowl.

A subtle tension eases through Ino's shoulders; she smiles a little, encouragingly. It is a start, and Shikamaru offers his own approval with a firm clasp of Chouji's shoulder.

It's also troubling, the immediate capitulation. For two days, Ino has only managed to get Chouji to eat by refusing to eat herself. Shikamaru had expected more of a fight. Consumption has become a torture, repulsive, nauseating. That Chouji would concede to Shikamaru's argument so readily suggests that he would rather be tormented, if the alternative meant the slightest unhappiness for anyone else. Very troubling.

And yet, hasn't he always been like this? Except for his one, tiny, victimless vice, hasn't Chouji always placed the needs of others, however superfluous and petty, above his own? It is his greatest virtue. Everyone in the village has told him so.

And Chouji told him, come to think of it. In the hospital room back then, he had admitted to his team and his sensei that the only reason he had survived their ill-conceived mission was because the bastard Jirobo had insulted Shikamaru. He had endured the blows the Sound shinobi had launched against his own ego – just as he had accepted Ino's hateful words at the barbeque – with no sense of indignation, no outrage.

Shikamaru should have realized long ago that Chouji's incredible forbearance against insult and injury wasn't the natural expression of his tolerance for others. He wasn't containing or overcoming the anger that should have arisen from the belittling insults and the snide remarks. It didn't occur to him to be angry except as a mask to cover the hurt; the insults never truly offended him. They never truly conflicted with his self-image.

Some genius. In all these years, Shikamaru had never perceived the ugly underside of Chouji's unfailing kindness. Somewhere, behind the booming laughter and the kind eyes, he believed what they'd said about him. More than he believed in Shikamaru's friendship, more than he believed in his father's affection, he knew he was unattractive, contemptible, and useless.

Now instead of harboring a simple acceptance that everyone else is better, smarter, stronger, more talented, more attractive, he's learnt to hate himself for his imagined deficiencies. Ino's criticisms or Shikamaru's depression, the war, Azuma's death, something has tipped the scales, some inner struggle has left him feeling so inadequate that he feels he deserves to be castigated for it.

As Chouji puts the first bite in his mouth, Shikamaru pulls a deep breath inward, and another, and another. He won't lose his temper. He'd snapped at Chouji early today, a few hours after they left the village. It was something stupid, some question the big shinobi had ducked, flushing with humiliation. Outwardly, Ino only frowned, threaded her arm through Chouji's, and continued walking. Inwardly, the telepathic tongue-lashing she'd dished out had shaken Shikamaru to his bones.

_You _idiot_! We're walking on fucking _glass_, do you understand? Except Chouji is the one that will get hurt if we stumble! Do you not understand that he's flogging himself, every minute of every goddamn day? He has no defenses, none! And you – don't you know you can do the worst damage? Be patient. Be calm. Be supportive. Or keep your fucking mouth shut!_

Shikamaru hadn't spoken for hours after that. Ino didn't communicate telepathically often. The potentially valuable ability was akin to being in two places at once, and she didn't have the concentration for it. Although the events of the last few days certainly qualified as extraordinary circumstances, for Ino to resort to telepathy outside the protection of the village spoke to her fury as much as the words themselves. Besides that, her rage had leached into her thoughts, a fury almost frightening in its intensity. She hadn't been so sloppy with her mental voice since they were genin.

And he won't be so sloppy as to allow his frustration to hurt Chouji again. In, out. In, out. In, out. Until his heartbeat is slow, until the tension bleeds away, until he can believe, for another hour or two, that he and Ino can fix their precious, better third.

He finds his center and goes to sit beside his team, ostensibly to eat, but mostly to watch.

The meal progresses slowly. Shikamaru has no appetite, but for appearances, he keeps pace with Ino, who had refused to eat her own oyakodon until Chouji had finished his first bowl. Chouji's big hands shake, spilling half of what he would bring to his mouth. Eating it agitates him so terribly that Shikamaru almost feels ashamed for making him try. Each mouthful looks like a torment and afterward will be a misery, too, as he tries to keep it down.

Chouji manages about half the bowl before pushing it away and setting the spoon down. Shikamaru glances urgently at Ino. She motions him to silence.

"Full?" she asks innocuously. No games, no subtle hints, no trace of sarcasm in her voice. Just a question.

Chouji nods wordlessly, hunched over the table, arms tightly crossed over his stomach. It's probably not accurate to say that he's filled, but he's eaten what he can. Ino accepts it; Shikamaru bites his tongue.

"We'll try again later," she murmurs, with a sidelong look at Shikamaru as Chouji visibly recoils from her words. Later: after his stomach has emptied, and anxiety-induced nausea can't eliminate the little nourishment they have convinced him to take.

A slight movement on Shikamaru's right catches his eye; Ino withdraws a pill bottle from her satchel and pours several mismatched pills into it. She drops one back into the bottle.

"Here, take these," she instructs, offering Chouji the two remaining capsules cupped in the palm of her hand. Chouji looks at her with a tired expectancy, and she stifles a sigh before answering the implicit question.

"It's a multivitamin and an iron supplement. They might have made you sick on an empty stomach, or I would have given them to you earlier."

"I don't know whether or not to believe you." There's a dull remorse in Chouji's voice, but whether he is apologizing for questioning her, or regretting her untrustworthiness, Shikamaru doesn't know. Either way, Ino brushes it aside.

"I'm not going to trick you." She injects a note of seriousness into her normal, self-assured tone. "I don't need to. These really are just vitamins, but it wouldn't matter if I were giving you soldier pills, painkillers, or antibiotics. Right now, your options are to do as you're told or go back to Konoha, to the hospital."

The pretty brown eyes close in submission; the broad shoulders droop for a moment. Then, resigned and grim, he straightens. It's a hard thing to watch, as some steely determination forces his broken body nearly to attention. His hands rest properly on his thighs, and only his eyes remain downcast. It's a bitter kind of dignity, a somber grace in the face of defeat, and it's as natural as breathing for a soldier of Chouji's caliber.

But it is not a battle. He shouldn't feel conquered.

He raises one open palm without a word, without even looking at her, and Ino pours the pills into it. Before she can hand him a water glass, he has swallowed them dry.

Shikamaru closes his eyes and counts to ten.

"Quit making it harder than it has to be, Chouji-kun," Ino asks, quietly. "Shikamaru's going to explode."

"Sorry." It's not insincere. Chouji is never sarcastic. But the bleakness in his tone robs the apology of any comfort it might have held.

"And quit saying that."

"Stop saying that."

She and Shikamaru speak in unison, and as expected, Chouji murmurs another apology. Then, "I'm going to bed."

Shikamaru gives Ino a questioning look. It's strange, because he has never had to rely on her judgment like this before, not about Chouji. But then, the heart-on-his-sleeve, easy-and-eager-to-please, happy-go-lucky shinobi isn't himself.

That first night, when he was crying, pleading with them, refusing to meet their eyes – that was at least recognizably Chouji. Shikamaru hadn't needed to know what Chouji was thinking to understand how he felt. The night Shikamaru had confessed, Chouji was still Chouji.

He doesn't know how to respond to the blank-faced, silent, grim-eyed thing that has replaced his candid childhood friend.

"Rest is the best medicine," Ino agrees. "Sleep probably isn't a bad idea."

Chouji nods, once. Rising, mindful of the protocols for exiting the seiza position, he slips behind the decorative noren that divide the main portion of the room from the sleeping area.

Shikamaru's throat tightens with sorrow. A gentle hand rests on his forearm, and Ino catches his gaze.

_It's alright, Shikamaru. He has no escape from us, right now. No one wants to be on display when they're embarrassed. _Her mental voice is sympathetic.

_He didn't eat enough._

_He can't eat much right now. Physically, he just isn't able. It will get better. We've dealt with starving disaster victims before. It's the same thing. Small, frequent, nutritious meals. He may still lose some weight, but we have to expect that, the first week or two. He just can't consume enough to support his metabolism._

_He doesn't want to._

_No. _Finally, a crack in Ino's polished calm. For a moment, Shikamaru feels her anger flaring up, into the psychic connection they share, a flash as brilliant as lightning and gone just as quickly. It's directed at herself, but that is all he can discern before she squashes the feeling.

Shikamaru feels himself sharing a sense of forgiveness with her, an empathy he could never voice. He doesn't blame her and wants her to know it. An answering gratitude embarrasses him, and he pulls away from the link. Ino holds to him more tightly.

_Don't go._

The intensity of her appeal is unsettling. Just as he had experienced her anger, he senses her fear now. Curious, he tests the boundaries between her mind and his, feeling along the edges of his consciousness for her brighter, warmer personality. Ino can delve into a person so subtly that only those who know the feel of her mind can sense her; he's stumbling like a drunk against the surprisingly thin walls that shield her inner self from their conversation.

Suddenly, the walls thicken, solidifying against his probing thoughts.

_That's private._

His curiosity is close to the surface, and he shares it with her. Pulling more deeply from himself, from places he doesn't normally expose, he tries to show her all the many ways he appreciates her presence: the comfort he takes in her confidence, the strength he borrows from her conviction and resolve, the tangible relief he feels in not being alone. The barrier between their minds doesn't weaken, but it warms to him, molding more securely against his jagged, incoherent, important thoughts.

His body shivers with the intimacy of it, because outside of this psychic bond, where words have less meaning than thought, and thought less than feeling, he could never express how important the bond between them is to him. He hadn't known it himself, until these last few days, hadn't known how much he relied on her.

Maybe he simply hadn't recognized how reliable she could be. In some ways, she's even steadier than Chouji, unafraid to stand her ground against anyone, especially her friends. Chouji would never let him down. Ino would never allow him get away with letting himself down.

He needs her, he realizes. Differently than the way he needs Chouji and his gentle goodwill, but it's a need just the same. Belatedly he tries to hold that thought away from their bond. He cannot tell whether he is successful. If she senses it, she spares him by not acknowledging the embarrassing truth.

_Thank you_, Ino murmurs instead. _I'm glad you don't blame me. I'm glad I can help. But this is still my fault._ Overwhelming guilt, and then nothing. She breaks the link between them. Shikamaru blinks his eyes uncertainly, surprised to find moisture lurking in the corners. Ino's face is drenched with tears, silent tears; he hadn't heard her weeping. Calmly she wipes them away, unashamed, and gets to her feet.

He catches her hand as she moves to leave. "It isn't," he tells her quietly. "It isn't."

Staring down at him, face unreadable, she shakes her head. "Yes, it is." Before he can argue, she gives him a half-hearted smile and says, "I'm going to take a walk, explore this town a little bit. I won't be gone long."

"It's late," Shikamaru answers, frowning.

"It's four hours to midnight, yet. It's a tourist attraction. The shops will still be open." She shakes out her long hair, and smiles a big, fake smile. "I need some me time. Shopping's the best thing for that."

He frowns deeper, but can't deny her. She's worn her calm, mild-mannered mask for so long, and she isn't naturally so even-tempered. Probably she needs privacy as badly as Chouji does, space to cry, to be unhappy and angry and frustrated. Unlike Shikamaru, she has the self-control to remove herself from the situation before indulging her emotions. The thought embarrasses him, and he looks at the floor. If Ino can control her temper for Chouji's sake, there's no excuse for Shikamaru to have lost his.

"Don't be gone long," he allows half-heartedly.

Another fake smile. She closes the door behind her, a void bursts onto the space beside him. The hole in the atmosphere is almost tangible. Has she always filled up a room like that? He wonders, and shakes the thought away.

Ino needs a little privacy, she says, but he and Chouji haven't really been alone since that earth-shattering, soul-bearing kiss. If Chouji's withdrawal is a reaction to Shikamaru's confession, perhaps they need a little privacy, too.


	13. Chapter 13

Thanks to everyone who's kept up with the slow updates and the revisions. I appreciate your support, and here's your reward - a little bit of Chouji angst and a whole lot of Shika-Cho hurt/comfort. Let me know what you think. I love hearing from you.

* * *

Ino's sweetly floral scent fades, and Chouji and Shikamaru are alone.

_Don't think about that. It never happened. He wouldn't want you if he knew what you were really like. _

"Chouji?" Shikmaru's voice comes quietly from behind the noren, with a faint question in it: Are you asleep? Can I come in?

Chouji doesn't answer. The patterned screens rustle slightly as Shikamaru slips through them.

_Suck in that fat stomach, you bloated piece of shit. Don't let him see it._ Chouji obeys, though he's turned to the wall, facing away from the noren, away from Shikamaru. His throat closes up with tears as he crosses his arms securely over his abdomen, glutted with food he had neither needed nor wanted.

"Chouji."

_Stop thinking about it. He probably wants to ask you to forget about it, anyway._

"What is it?" he asks hoarsely, fumbling with the words. Speaking to someone as brilliant and beautiful as Shikamaru seems somehow profane, and he feels as though he has inadvertently blasphemed in a holy place. Hot tears spill over his lashes, falling silent and unnoticed against the pillow.

Shikamaru steals across the floor, subtle and soundless as shadow. He folds one lean leg beneath him on the futon, pressing the warm length of his thigh too intimately against Chouji's back. Chouji curls over himself, shrinking from the touch. Shikamaru slides a hand beneath his arm, closes his fingers over the joint of shoulder and collarbone, and draws him back.

"Calm down."

He tries to obey, too aware of all the imperfections such close proximity reveals. He presses his crossed arms more tightly into his belly.

"How are you feeling?" Shikamaru releases his grip by degrees, waiting to see if Chouji will try to move away.

"I'm alright," he whispers, not trusting himself to speak louder. "Just tired."

"You're a bad liar." There's a trace of a wry tease in Shikamaru's voice, which quickly turns to regret. "You never used to bother trying to lie to me."

The gentle reproof stings. He starts to apologize, but Shikamaru's hand reaches to cover his mouth instantly.

"Don't. It's fine – I'm not going to stop trying to get an honest answer out of you, but it's fine. A little white lie like that is not something you should lose any sleep over."

"I forget sometimes," he adds quietly, "how much you take things to heart. How literal you are." He reaches over Chouji's side, resting his forearm and hand over Chouji's, hesitant at first. Then he links his slender fingers with Chouji's thick, ugly ones, locking their hands together with a tight squeeze. His fingertips brush the thin cotton yukata and the fat stomach beneath it, but he ignores Chouji's nervous shudder.

"It's just that you used to tell me everything, you know," he went on. "You used to _trust_ me with everything. When did you stop? And how the hell did I miss it?" The thoughtful tone in his voice shifts again; it's a real question.

"I trust you," Chouji replied tiredly. He pushes Shikamaru's hand away and struggles to right himself. Shikamaru doesn't move to stop him. Pressing a patterned sleeve against his face, he sops up tears before turning to face his friend. He draws his knees up to hide his stomach and rests his back against the wall, but can't quite force himself hold Shikamaru's openly curious gaze.

"That's bullshit," Shikamaru replies baldly, eyeing his friend with that same wry humor. "If that were true, you wouldn't flinch every time I touch you. You wouldn't evade every question I ask you. And you'd believe me when I say I like you."

He exhales sharply, frustrated, a sigh that's half groan. "Actually, that's something we need to talk about," he admits softly, black eyes suddenly troubled. Chouji stiffens, but doesn't dare interrupt.

"I don't think you…" Shikamaru voice trails off, and he chews on the thought for a minute. "You didn't really hear what I was trying to tell you a couple of nights ago," he says finally.

_He does want you to forget about it. You misunderstood, you idiot. Of course you did. You're so fucking stupid._ He levels a blank stare on the futon. Empty. Be empty.

"I… don't remember much," he says, and that's mostly true. Jumbled, twisted memories tease him cruelly, to the point that he can't quite distinguish fact from fantasy. Too much had happened, too many conflicting images vied for dominance. Ino's soft pink mouth pressed to his lips, her sweet breath in his mouth, filling his lungs. Shikamaru's maniacal laughter, and his hungry, desperate kiss. Blood and vomit, and skinny fingers knuckle-deep in blood and white-and-black-and-blue fat. And superimposed on all of it, a cutting fury, slicing at his imperfections with cold steel and colder words.

"No?" Shikamaru sounds a little surprised. "You were pretty exhausted, I guess." He shakes his head to clear it. "What do you remember?"

Lips and tongues, toothpaste and old cigarettes. Broken promises. "I don't know."

"You know something."

Empty. Don't think about it.

"Chouji."

He closes his eyes, the memory of Shikamaru's kiss burning on his mouth.

And then it's not a memory. It's not the same, not even close, just a chaste brush of chapped lips and the lingering scent of smoke. But the smolder on his lips bursts into flames nonetheless.

"You remember that?" Shikamaru draws back.

Chouji's shivering doesn't seem to be answer enough, so he manages a short, jerky nod. Shikamaru relaxes.

"I told you that I don't want us to be just friends. You said you wanted the same thing."

Tears of shame leak out of the corners of his eyes. He had confessed, then. That hadn't been a dream.

"You only admitted it because I was going to leave, otherwise," Shikamaru says softly. "But it was true anyway. And I was glad for that, Chouji – you can't know how happy you made me. I just… didn't realize that things that were suddenly clear to me weren't clear to you."

Of course not. He's brilliant, why doesn't he ever remember that?

"I thought I must have said it – I felt like I said it. But I didn't, and you need to hear it out loud, I think. For some reason, the words matter to you, in a way they never have to me."

He reaches out to pick up Chouji's hand, which he stares at for a long moment, examining the palm with inhuman focus. Chouji's gaze is fixed on Shikamaru's thin hands, and so he doesn't see Shikamaru's face.

"I love you, Chouji."

_Love. _

Ice fingers scratch at Chouji's back and scrabble down his arms and legs, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. He feels frozen in place, and for the first time in days, chili pepper Chouji is silent. Love.

Even in the beginning, Chouji must have known the feeling for what it was, because he can't remember a time when he hadn't loved Shikamaru. It had blossomed before he had known how unusual it was for a boy to be attracted to another boy, before he had known how impossible his wishes were. Reality dawned in Academy, playground taunting had finally warned him that certain things just weren't done. He had resigned himself to a devoted friendship and hadn't even considered that there could be anything else, not since they were very small.

Little remains of anything Shikamaru had said that night in his bedroom. He remembers him saying that he was a bad friend, and he remembers the kiss – no one could forget a kiss like that – and he remembers Ino's promises. But even numbed by shock, and weary to the point of collapse, he would have remembered 'love.' It hadn't been said then, he is sure of it.

_It doesn't matter_.

Something crumbles inside him. There is no possible answer to the admission. His heart has always belonged to Shikamaru, his heart and his devotion and his future, always. Always. But who would claim so unworthy an offering? He is ashamed of it. So he stares blankly beyond his oldest, dearest friend, into the dark room beyond, trembling, too choked by tears to respond, even if he had been worthy of doing so.

Too late, he realizes he is crying. He presses a hand against his mouth in horror and squeezes his eyes tightly closed. Shikamaru had confessed love – real love, not an Academy crush – and he was crying.

Shikamaru only shushes him. "Don't cry. There's nothing to be upset about." Careful fingers touch his face and brush his hair back, revealing his swirls and his tears.

Chouji wipes at his eyes as Shikamaru smooths his hair back behind his ears, raking light fingers through the bushy mane. "Shhh. It's alright."

Shikamaru tugs gently on a lock of reddish hair, his face scant centimeters from Chouji's. "Are you going to be okay?"

Chouji nods stiffly, biting the apology on his lips, knowing it will be met with exasperation. He stares down at his knees, and Shikamaru sits back.

"Is the thought of me being in love with you _so_ awful?"

"No!" Chouji denies it too quickly, desperate to assuage any pain his silence may have caused. Too quickly to realize that Shikamaru's tone had been curious rather than reproachful.

"So it's a good thing," the black-eyed nin prompts.

He chances a furtive glance. Shikamaru's eyes are a bit guarded, but there's a growing amusement in them, too, and a faint smile plays on his mouth.

Chouji looks down again, instantly, afraid his own eyes will betray him. "It's unbelievable."

"See?" Shikamaru's smile firms up into something knowing and wry and sluggish, and fundamentally Shikamaru, something with layers and layers of meaning that Chouji can never hope to pierce. "I told you, you don't trust me anymore."

"It's not like that!" His reply is a little too loud, and he hugs his legs closer to his chest. He swallows hard. "It's… it's like watching the sun come up in the west. Even if it's happening right in front of you, it's still impossible." He lifts his eyes long enough to see how this is received.

"How poetic," Shikamaru notes, stretching expansively, like an animal waking from a nap, and yawning equally broadly. "I know what you mean, though. That's more or less how I felt a few nights ago."

Chouji rests his chin on his knees – a month ago, he hadn't been able to do that. "I don't know why," he admits huskily. "Why would you ever think it was impossible for someone to be in love with you? You're a genius. And you're…" Shikamaru's smile has turned positively smug, and his voice falters. "What?"

Shikamaru's black eyes sparkle with humor; like the first time, he's a little drunk on his confession. He _knows_. Tears and silence hadn't hidden Chouji's heart. Somehow, he'd given himself away; somehow, Shikamaru had understood feelings he hadn't dared voice.

"You said it."

Chouji blinks stupidly for a moment before recognizing his blunder. He hadn't even been tricked into it. He had just opened his big, fat mouth. "Oh, gods," he murmurs, burying his face in his hands.

Shikamaru ruffles his hair affectionately. "I suspected as much," he says gently. "All but knew it, really. I didn't realize until later that you didn't understand me the same way, and I'm sorry for that. I told you: sometimes I forget how literal you are." He squeezes Chouji's shoulder. "Will you look at me?"

Chouji can't disobey, so he raises his head, knowing full well his swirls have disappeared into the red flush on his fat cheeks, and the shine of tears on them must be blinding . But he's shocked to find a matching pink glow across Shikamaru's nose and cheekbones.

"I'm…" Shikamaru groans, rubbing briskly at his flushed face with both hands. "Goddammit, I'm no good at this. But…" He sets his jaw in the beautifully stubborn line Chouji knows so well. "If you need the words, I'll say them. If hearing it said out loud will make you believe it, I'll say it. Today and tomorrow and forever, if that's what it takes."

He draws a breath deep into his lungs. "I love you, Chouji. I _love_ you. And I know you love me, too. Someday, I'll get you to say it."

The shock of it is no less profound the second time, and Chouji can't tear his eyes off Shikamaru's glittering black ones, as bewitched as a charmed snake mirroring the dance of the charmer's flute. Shikamaru touches his face with cold fingertips. Then he lays his palm against Chouji's cheek.

"In the meantime…" His voice trails off, and his brows swoop downward, pensive. "Chouji," he begins again, "I'm going to ask you something, and I need you to answer me as honestly as you can."

He wraps his arms more tightly around his knees, suddenly sick with fear, knowing that whatever is asked, he cannot lie, not now. "What?" he whispers.

Shikamaru strokes hair back from his face. "What would you not do for me? If I asked you, what would you not be willing to do?"

It isn't what Chouji expects to hear, but it's an easy question. "If…" He draws a shaking breath to steady himself. "If I can do it, nothing."

"If," Shikamaru echoes softly. "What if it was a senseless request? What I asked something of you that you believed was beyond your ability? What if I asked you to do something impossible? Would you refuse to even try?"

A wretched moan escapes him. He muffles it in the pillow.

"Is that a yes?"

"No!" he cries weakly, his voice choked with regret. "No, I would try."

_But you'd let him down. Again._

"So you would try to do anything I asked." There's deep satisfaction in Shikamaru's voice as he says this, and he leans forward to press a warm kiss to Chouji's ear. "Promise?" he breathes. Chouji shudders, his body is confused, warming to Shikamaru's kiss and trying to pull away from the undeserved honor at the same time. He clenches his eyes tightly closed and nods jerkily.

"You know that I wouldn't ask you to do anything I didn't think you could do, don't you?" Shikamaru raises himself a little, but remains bent over his friend to ask this gentle question.

_And that's it exactly_, chili pepper Chouji crows suddenly. _That's exactly it. They expect too much of someone like you. You're useless. You can't do anything. You can't even control your fucking appetite, and he trusts you to do the impossible. But you won't tell them the truth. You're such a goddamned coward. They're going to rely on you someday, and you're going to fail them. They're going to get hurt, or worse, because you couldn't help them. Because you're not good enough._

_Shut up! Stop crying! It makes your fat jiggle; do you want Shikamaru to see that? Your gut, your ass, your fat thighs, flopping and jumping like fucking fish out of water?_

"Stop it, stop it!" Chouji wrenches away, pulled almost into a fetal position. "Stop, stop, stop!" He moans the injunction over and over, shivering, crying, trying to drown out the fiend's barbs.

"What did I do?" Shikamaru asks, in a rush of urgent words. He shakes Chouji by the shoulder. "Chouji!"

"Don't!" Chouji gasps. "Don't. I'll let you down, I'll fuck up, I'll mess it up, and I'll let you down."

And suddenly he's dragged into a rough hold from which he can't fight free. Cradled like a child against Shikamaru's slender body, he sobs, helpless as black shadow presses his ugly, flabby body against perfection, so that his cheek is pressed to Shikamaru's narrow shoulder. For a long, long while, he cries, too overwhelmed to do anything else. Dry, rough lips brush his forehead and his hair from time to time; but otherwise Shikamaru just holds him and lets him cry.

When finally he is too exhausted to weep anymore, he lies quietly, his mind full of chili pepper Chouji's scathing. The shadow relinquishes him almost uncertainly, as if unsure as to whether or not he can be trusted not to try escaping Shikamaru's bony embrace.

"Chouji," Shikamaru says finally.

He cringes, but fighting is futile. He'll lose.

"It doesn't matter, Chouji." Those dry lips linger on his hair. "I don't care if you let me down. I don't care if you screw up. It's not about that. It never was."

He turns his face, hiding it in Shikamaru's chest. "You're going to let people down occasionally – so what?" he demands, as Chouji flinches. "So what? Nobody's perfect. Gods know I've let people down, more times than I can count.

"Yes, I have," he reiterates firmly. Chouji is shaking his head violently against his chest, and Shikamaru wraps an arm underneath it to stop him. "I have, Chouji. I let you down."

"Here." He slides out from under Chouji and lays him down on the futon. "No, don't turn away from me. Please, Chouji. You said you'd try – all I want is for you to listen."

"Ino never meant for any of this to happen," he says, in a flurry of words, his genius mind racing ahead of his mouth. "She's overbearing and bossy and neurotic as hell, and fuck it all if she isn't a self-righteous bitch, but all she really wanted was to protect you. Us. She couldn't have foreseen this. Naruto's probably the only one in the village who's got her beat for nerve and brass – she couldn't possibly have known that criticizing you would cause you to react the way you did.

"But _I_ could have. I should have. I've always known how… how insecure… you are. And there were a million things I could have done differently to make things easier for you. I could have defended you from the teasing. I could have insisted we go to the onsen, go swimming, could have refused to let you get away with your self-consciousness. I could have been a fucking man and sided with Asuma when he said you needed to diet a little – stop that."

Chouji tried to turn away at this confession; Shikamaru pins him firmly in place on his back. "It's the truth, and you deserve nothing less than the truth, Chouji. I liked you regardless; I wish you could understand the... the…" He hisses, searching for a word. "The _hold_ you have on me. That you've always had on me.

"But the truth is that I knew perfectly well that you would be faster on your feet and have better stamina if you lost a little weight. I also knew how you would feel about being criticized by me. So I didn't say anything.

"I couldn't ask you to face up to your bad habits and risk alienating you. I let you suffer through the teasing, rather than speak up for you and risk allowing you, or anyone else, to sense my true feelings, because I didn't know whether or not you would return them. And I was terrified of losing your friendship. I was a fucking coward, Chouji. I didn't take the risks I should have taken to protect you. I let you down, and I'm sorry."

Chouji shivers silently, bemused, because Shikamaru is crying now. It's a refined, restrained kind of weeping, mostly tears and hitched breathing, but it's crying. Old instincts kick in, and Chouji gets to his knees. Shikamaru lets him, perhaps believing erroneously that his confession had driven him back.

With every fiber of his being, Chouji wants to reach out and hold Shikamaru as Shikamaru had been holding him. But it feels wrong, like speaking at all had felt wrong, and he clenches his hands into nervous fists to rest on the futon.

"You're no coward," Chouji says finally, roughly, because Shikamaru's hurt matters more than his unworthiness to address it. "And you've never let me down."

Shikamaru laughs bitterly. "Just because you refuse to admit it doesn't make it less true. I did let you down, because I didn't have the courage to speak up." He looks up, a hard expression in his glittering eyes. A pair of narrow hands dart forward, swift, deft, and catch Chouji's sides, in the soft flesh above his hips where Ino had bruised him not so very long ago. Chouji cries out at the unexpected touch.

He would fall back and away, out of reach, but Shikamaru tightens his grip, and, finding better purchase on his hipbones, drags him forward. His expression is very dark, and who would have known the emotions of the apathetic layabout could change so suddenly, so without warning?

"I guess I deserved this, in the end," he thinks aloud, spreading his fingers wider across Chouji's broad lower back, which bucks forward, arching desperately in a futile attempt to escape. "For all the times I wanted to hold you and didn't have the strength to do it, now, _now_ you don't want to be touched. Now you're ashamed."

He rolls forward. In one smooth, seamless motion he is kneeling before Chouji, their knees just barely touching, his hands still locked around Chouji's hips. "Don't move," he whispers.

A tear leaks out of the corner of Chouji's eye, but he does as he's told. Shikamaru relinquishes one hip to press gentle fingers to Chouji's lips. "You said you would try to do anything I asked."

Chouji closes his eyes, terrified, and nods, calloused fingers still keeping him silent.

"Okay, then. I'm asking." He removes his hand from Chouji's mouth and leans forward to kiss him. "Let us take care of you," he murmurs, feelingly. "Ino and me. Help us understand what you're going through, so we can figure it out together. We've both lashed out at you, for no goddamn good reason, and you've still been there for us. Let us be there for you, now."

His hands are back on Chouji's sides, sliding up to palm his back, just below his shoulder blades. With a gentle, insistent pull, he draws his friend into his arms. Chouji lingers there stiffly for a long moment before slowly, haltingly, circling his own trembling arms around Shikamaru's waist. He is choking on his own contemptibility, and the press of Shikamaru taut, flat belly against him is almost more than he can bear.

But Shikamaru will be hurt if he tries to pull away. So he sucks in his stomach and tries not to cry.

Why that? If he wanted a star, Chouji would never have rested until he'd found one to lay at Shikamaru's feet. If he had wanted Chouji to diet, he would have only had to have asked. And…

And that makes him wonder, because Shikamaru wants him to rely on him, wants him to trust him. So maybe he'll answer honestly.

"Shikamaru…" Chouji starts hoarsely, and then loses his nerve.

Shikamaru's arms squeeze tighter. "What?"

He swallows, and pulls away just a bit, dredging his battered soul for courage. He stares at the fabric of the futon.

"All…" He exhales sharply, but Shikamaru is patient just now, willing to wait if Chouji will remain in the circle of his embrace.

"All things being equal," he says slowly, wondering if he's ever used that phrase in his life before now, "you…" He swallows again. "You would like it if I were thinner."

Shikamaru's eyes widen, and Chouji cringes, knowing he's erred. But Shikamaru just pulls him back into a tighter embrace. "Dummy," he mutters. "That's all you can think of at a time like this? You just have to have an obsession, don't you?"

Heat rushes to Chouji's face, and Shikamaru heaves a sigh. "Let me think about how to answer that one, okay? We'll talk about it in the morning." Now it's Shikamaru drawing back, but he reaches to touch Chouji's face as he does. "I love you," he reminds him quietly. "I loved you when we were still kids, I loved you six months ago, and I love you now. Your weight had nothing to do it."

That's comforting, and Chouji nods an acknowledgement, wishing he could answer the way Shikamaru wants him to answer.

"You two are completely adorable, but it's getting late, and I'm kind of tired," Ino drawls from the noren,

Chouji yelps, scrambling out of Shikamaru's grasp. Shikamaru just looks at the smug blonde.

"What?" she asks innocently. Her eyes sparkle like jewels in the lamplight. "You didn't think you could keep a secret like that from me, did you?"


	14. Chapter 14

Sincere thanks to everyone who has taken the time and trouble to review. I've really fallen in love with these three as I've been writing the story, and I hope it comes through.

* * *

"You had no right!" Shikamaru's shouting would wake everyone in the on-sen, if Ino had not had the foresight to lay a silencing seal on the floor between them. Thick steam billows around them, as hot and turbulent as the storm brewing between them. The women's bath is abandoned, and thankfully so, because Shikamaru had stormed in after Ino, heedless of the signs on the door.

Given a moment to choke down his rage, Shikamaru had managed to settle Chouji in bed and elicit a promise that the big shinobi would remain there until he returned. The answering deferential whisper made Ino's heart ache. Chouji's pliancy was endearing, but like a puppy kicked out of the way too often, there was a timid desperation in it, a plea for affection mingled with a terrible fear of rejection. Ino stayed long enough to watch Shikamaru drape a coverlet over their spent teammate, and then removed herself from the room as quickly as her feet would carry her. As she sped down the corridors to the bath, she had muttered a prayer for Shikamaru to control himself for just a few more minutes.

The fire in his eyes has not dimmed. His face is a thundercloud, more darkly menacing than she ever imagined it could be. Her heart beats like a hammer against her ribs, but she answers him as evenly as she is able.

"You gave me no choice," she says flatly.

"It wasn't your place," he shouts, "you goddamned, meddling bitch!"

The insult stings, and if she had been unnerved by his uncharacteristic belligerence, she is now only angry. She steps up to him suddenly, standing so close to him that her breasts brush his shirt. It's intentional, if not premeditated. A sudden intuition, grown-up and womanish, struck her, and she realized such brazenness would alarm him as much as his vehemence upset her. It's petty revenge, but she's too angry to care. She raises herself on tiptoe, leaning in, pushing herself against him.

"You hurt him once already." She bites the words off in his ear, just centimeters from his throat. "You and your temper." He sputters as she continues coldly, "I couldn't let you hurt him again."

"You! You can fucking even say that to me!" Outraged fists ball up at his sides. His aura churns violently in the space between them, rising instinctively to meet her, and his shadow shivers with his fury. "Do you know what you've done to him?"

She freezes, steeling herself.

"Every day, every goddamned day, for how many years? He was never good enough for you! We weren't good enough, not for you, and your fucking shallow pride, and your castles-in-the-sky fantasies!"

Ino's stomach clenches painfully, and she chews the inside of her lips until she tastes blood.

"You're so _fat_," Shikamaru sneers, vicious in his anger. "Why don't you go on a _diet_? Don't you know girls like _slim_ guys? You're never going to get a girlfriend." He straightens to his full height and drags a deep, unsteady breath into his lungs, thrusting his chest out, and scowls scornfully down at her. Some detached part of Ino's brain idly perceives that his stance is a primal, unconscious show of male aggression, a puffing up to intimidate one's adversaries. Perhaps an entirely natural response to her abrasive sexuality. Ino clings to the observation, struggling to view him solely as a specimen for study, to ignore his words and the loathing in them.

"Slow down," he mocks her, relentless, "you're embarrassing me! Why can't you eat like a normal person?"

Tears sting like mad, but she refuses to let them fall. Shikamaru's vindictive streak is a vice he always regrets indulging. When his rage subsides, he will rue his words. His remorse will be worse if he knows he made her cry.

He doesn't really hold her at fault. They've been mentally linked twice since they left the village; he couldn't have concealed such resentment in the intimacy of that bond. But he is hurt, humiliated and defensive, and she is a convenient target. He's lashing out. And she'll take it.

"Why can't you keep your fucking promises?"

This last, horrible indictment drives her back a step, and despite her best intentions, her stare falls to Shikamaru's chest. One powerful stride brings him to her, another attempt to intimidate, but she won't be moved again.

"I know my sins very well," she answers harshly, over the ache in her throat. She forces herself to look up and catches the first glimmer of uncertainty in Shikamaru's black eyes. Surprises bring out the worst in him, because his poor reaction time makes him vulnerable, and like most men, vulnerability makes him angry. There is no telling how he had expected his conversation with Chouji to end, but certainly having Ino hijack his body hadn't been in the cards. She can't really blame him for being upset. But nor was she in the wrong.

"I will never hurt him again," she vows, still fighting the tightness in her voice. "I would rather die." She raises her chin, very nearly flinching as a tear spills down her cheek. The she matches Shikamaru's formidable stare with one of her own.

"But I'll never let anyone else hurt him, either. No matter how much they may love him."

He flushes brightly, and in embarrassment, fumbles for some defense. "You took my body! In the middle of that, in…" Too self-conscious to continue, he presses his lips together tightly and turns away.

"Only for a few seconds! And I had to!" Ino objects. "Believe me," she adds feelingly, "I would have happy just to watch."

Shikamaru's ever-darkening flush reaches a painfully violet hue. "That's another thing," he mutters. Some of the tension recedes with the volume of his voice. He cups the back of his neck with one hand, embarrassed for a dozen reasons, still furious, and completely incapable of handling such a variety of complicated emotions all at once.

The genius's emotional ineptitude is as heartbreakingly endearing as Chouji's tractability. Ino feels her own defensiveness slipping away. "It was beautiful," she says softly, breaking their gaze. "I've been waiting for you to come clean about your feelings for Chouji for a long time. I wish I hadn't had to interrupt it."

"You didn't have to interrupt anything!" The anger flares up again.

"What would you have said?" she retorts. "If I hadn't used the mind transfer jutsu just then."

Shikamaru drops his eyes to the floor, sullen, and doesn't answer.

"What would you have said?" she prods. "I could see how you felt. It was written all over your face. So tell me. How would you have answered Chouji when he asked you whether you would prefer him thinner?"

Shikamaru's quick, unsteady breaths agitate the steamy air, like smoke from a dragon's snout. Clouds of vapor swirl up around his head, until finally he breaks their stare. Still he doesn't answer.

"You were livid, Shikamaru. Hurt that his weight was all he could think about. That after everything that had just happened between you, he still wanted to know something like that. Still doubted you. So don't tell me you wouldn't have lost your temper. And don't pretend you don't know what your disapproval could do to him right now, as sensitive as he is."

Ino leaves him standing near the door and takes a seat by the bath. Dipping her feet into the hot water, she says, "I'm sorry I stole your body. I only did it to protect Chouji." The apology is more matter-of-fact than penitent, but Shikamaru's jaw clenches in acknowledgement.

"If you have to yell at somebody, I'd rather it be me. I can take it." She smirks, hoping it doesn't look as half-hearted as it feels. "Besides, you need to figure out what you're going to tell him in the morning."

"Nothing," Shikamaru snipes irritably, turning away from her. "You said it – it doesn't matter to me. It never did."

"I know." She exhales, trying to calm herself. "I'm sorry if I made you sound too dramatic. I was improvising."

"It wasn't any worse than anything I'd already said," he mutters, barely audible from across the room. Embarrassment crowds out his short-lived anger, and Ino relaxes, sinking her legs deeper into the water.

"What you said was just fine, Shikamaru," she answers gently. "It was lovely, in fact." She smiles at his groan. "But you do have to talk about it later," she goes on briskly, "because you have to tell him the truth."

"Goddammit!" Shikamaru whirls on her and stalks toward the bath. "You _did_ tell him the truth!"

"I told him a partial truth." She pats the stone wall beside her. "Sit here, won't you?"

He rolls his eyes, but after a moment's hesitation, takes a seat on the edge of the bath, crossing his legs under him.

"You absolutely have to be honest with him, you know." She doesn't look at him as she pumps her legs slowly back and forth through the hot water.

His hands clench and unclench on his knees. "What are you talking about?" he asks, lowly, barely containing his frustration. "It doesn't matter. I don't care."

"He didn't ask you if it mattered. He asked you for your preference."

"Ino…"

"He's _ingenuous_, Shikamaru, not stupid. Do you think that he won't recognize an evasion? That he won't sense that you don't want to give him a truthful answer?"

"What the hell am I supposed to say?" Shikamaru jumps to his feet, staring down at her with the same angry bewilderment that had provoked her to use the mind transfer jutsu in the first place. "How in the seven hells am I supposed to answer that?" He paces away, all but pulsating with nervous energy.

Ino is silent. He isn't angry with her right now.

"He expected me to tell him yes, didn't he?" he demands of the empty room. "_Wanted_ me to fucking say yes, so he'd have an excuse to… to… oh, fuck!" He rubs his hands furiously over his face. "But if I'd said no, he wouldn't have believed me."

"Shikamaru." He glances back at her, and she captures his eyes with hers, searching their desperately confused depths. "You've always been so careful," she says softly. "You never allowed yourself to… to watch him… like other people watch the person they like." She draws one leg up out of the water and wraps her arm around it. "But these last few weeks, you have. You've watched him, every time you're together, studying him, like you're memorizing him. He wouldn't have believed you, no. Because it's simply not true."

Shikamaru's eyes widen in horror as she concludes simply, "It doesn't matter, and you don't care, but 'all things being equal,' Shikamaru, a slimmer Chouji appeals to you. Denying that isn't going to do anything but prove that you won't be honest, if you think the truth could hurt his feelings."

He shakes his head violently. "All things are _not_ fucking equal! Something like that," he gestures violently, "something like that is so completely fucking insignificant!"

Ino nods patiently. "And that's how you have to explain it to Chouji."

He stares at her for a long minute. Ino returns the look placidly before putting her foot back in the warm water of the bath. It's getting cooler, now that the sun has set, and the breeze through the open windows set high in the walls moves sweetly through the warm, moist steam. Ino lays her head back, deciding to stay and bathe when Shikamaru leaves, and enjoy the quiet privacy of the abandoned bath.

Finally Shikamaru sits beside her again, pulling his knees up to his chest. He crosses his arms over his knees rests his head on them. "Why is it," he mutters, with his head still down, "that people say I'm the smart one?"

"You are. You're just also frighteningly stupid when it comes to matters of the heart." Her chuckle echoes in the empty bath. "Don't feel bad. I could say that about ninety percent of the male population. Loving another man doesn't give you a woman's wiles. Or her intuition."

"But how… how can I say something like that?" He rolls his head sideways so that he's barely looking at her, just a glance out of the corner of his eye. Hoping, and afraid to hope, that she might have a painless answer to Chouji's difficult question. She reaches over and tugs his hand free and links her fingers with his. He straightens and jerks a little, surprised at the touch, but he doesn't try to pull away.

"You tell him what you just said to me – all things aren't equal. Sure, everyone looks their best when they're fit and healthy, but physique is only a small part of a person's appeal. Altering Chouji's won't change how you feel about him. His heart, his kind nature, his optimistic spirit – those are the things that really draw you to him. The muscles and the pretty eyes, the sweetheart mouth and all that lovely hair are just bonuses. You have never been willing to risk his wellbeing or his peace of mind on something as inconsequential as a few kilos. And you still aren't."

Her voice turns wistful, because she regrets that she has been less mindful of Chouji's vulnerabilities. And because she is jealous, even though she had promised herself she wouldn't be, even though she has no right to be. She can't tell Chouji these things herself, smooth her fingers over that unhappy furrow between his brows and kiss the corners of his mouth until he smiles. She doesn't have the credibility to do it.

And she is jealous because Shikamaru doesn't consider her heart and her feelings as he so carefully protects Chouji's. Chouji has always tried to be considerate of them both – of everyone, really – always thinking of the other person, friend or foe. Shikamaru is too guarded to open his heart to such of suffering or to share his own pain. His wry, crusty stoicism is a sewed-on mask, and though he likely wouldn't even recognize the person beneath it, he is self-aware enough to recognize how easily wounded he can be. He has no faith in his ability to recover should anyone ever pierce that mask – and why should he? He still wakes in a cold sweat of guilt when his nightmares remind him that he left Chouji to die, that he failed Asuma.

But she and Chouji know his gentle old soul like the inside of their own eyelids.

And that thought takes the sting out of her envy. He can barely express his love for Chouji, who would never scorn anyone's affection, who is the most imminently loveable person Ino knows. Loving herright now she wants to hold him and will her confidence into him as he struggles for a way to render her thoughts onto his tongue.

She's not unlike Chouji in this – once she's made a decision, she plunges after it with all her heart. And she's decided that she wants her teammates. The exclusion gnaws at her soul.

She realizes Shikamaru is staring at her, and she involuntarily stiffens before forcing herself to relax.

"What?" she asks, as nonchalantly as she's able, cursing herself for not having guarded her thoughts better. "Isn't that more or less how you feel?"

"Yeah…" He looks down at their entwined hands. "Ino…"

"Hmmm?"

"Do you…" A confused expression crosses his face, and he squeezes her hand briefly before releasing it. "Never mind. I think maybe I'm just part of the ninety percent."

She purses her lips, but doesn't press for an explanation. "The point is," she starts, steering the subject back to Chouji, "you have to establish what you like about him, physically and otherwise. And if he pushes the issue, don't get mad. Just shrug like it's no big deal and say it would be nice someday to see him at his best, but right now, all he should be worried about is recovering." She smiles, trying with all her heart to make it look genuine. "Since that's all his new boyfriend is worried about."

Shikamaru's eyes widen before he turns away, reddening, embarrassed. "Y…yeah. About that..." He falters, unable to finish.

"I've known almost as long as you have, I think." She answers his unspoken question calmly. "It was a little while after Chouji took the chili pepper pill."

"How? I only ever told Asuma-sensei." He looks at his feet. "Even my parents don't know. I still don't…" His nostrils flare. "I don't know how they'll take it."

"It doesn't matter, does it? It won't change anything."

It's not the right thing to say. She should have offered some meaningless platitude: _I'm sure they just want you to be happy_, or "_How could anyone object to Chouji_?" But they know one another too well for that.

"No. At least Chouza-san won't care." He grimaces. "Except for wanting grandkids."

Ino smiles to herself, because she hadn't thought of that. Children were positively something the boys couldn't give one another, and Shikamaru wanted very much to be a father, someday. Chouji had never said anything about it, but he'd never had to. Children were as attracted to the big shinobi as they were to dirt and dead animals.

"I'm sure you'll think of something," she murmurs, as new possibilities unfurl in her head.

"Maybe." He sighs heavily. "Who else knows?" he asks, as if he's been dreading this question.

"I never told anyone. As far as I know, Kiba and Shino are the only others who have a clue."

"_What_?" He almost jumps to his feet; Ino catches him by a hand and tugs him down. Pulling away, he crouches, wild-eyed and horrified.

"Kiba caught your scent one day, about a year ago," she explains quickly, "some dog thing – anyway, he knew. He told Shino, and Shino asked me about it. That's how Kiba's jaw got broken last fall."

Shikamaru stares at her, dumbfounded, still crouching. "Kiba's jaw," he repeats, incredulously. At her nod, he sits back down, carefully holding her gaze.

"You… _you_ were the one that broke Kiba's jaw." He's staring at her like he's never quite seen her before, and she smirks. "He said he got hurt in a bar fight. With a jounin."

"Nope. It was me. I told him it was to ensure he shut his trap long enough to consider whether or not I'd would actually break his balls if I ever heard that he'd spread rumors about my team again." She stretches languidly, releasing Shikamaru's hand to do so. "It's not that _I_ minded, understand. It's just that I didn't want Chouji to find out like that, from other people's mindless chatter. I figured you both deserved better than that."

Shikamaru swallows hard. "Did… did you know about Chouji?" It's painful to ask the question, because if she had known, he may have wasted precious years wondering.

"No. I could never tell. I even asked Kiba once, after his jaw healed up. He said he couldn't tell either way. That Chouji's scent reminded him of a little kid." A warm smile pulls at her mouth. "'Innocent' was the word he used."

Shikamaru's eyes soften. "That's a good word for Chouji."

"Not so long ago, it was a good word for all of us," Ino remarks drily.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you." The blunt apology that has been brewing under the surface finally surfaces, equal parts regret and frustration.

"I know," Ino replies easily. "All's forgiven. I would have been mad, too. Even if I did only control you for thirty seconds."

"That was probably a good move." Shikamaru blows out a heavy breath, expelling the rest of his anger. "Although I hate to admit it."

"I was protecting you, too, you know." She grins and reaches over to muss the pineapple tail, now soggy with condensation. "You would have been miserable if you'd hurt Chouji, even unintentionally."

He grimaces and pulls his hair free of its tie. "Troublesome." He sighs. "We're lucky to have you, Ino," he mumbles.

She winks an acknowledgement. "I'm fully aware of how clueless you two would be without me."

He tries to smile, but his eyes cloud with a reclusive thoughtfulness. This withdrawal usually signals the end of a conversation, the point where the taciturn and introspective genius has lost interest, or, conversely, needs to mull over what's been said. He's been given him a great deal to think on; his intellect hungers for the opportunity to turn inward and chew on it.

She taps his nose to bring him back to her. "Listen, Shikamaru. I'm lucky to have you guys, too. You two… you have no idea how much you mean to me," she says. "Losing Asuma-sensei showed me what I really cared about. What really mattered. And it isn't pretty clothes or pretty boys or even out-doing Sakura. It's protecting the people precious to you."

"That's why I broke Kiba's jaw. And it's why I used the mind transfer jutsu tonight. To protect what's precious to me." She looks down at the steam rolling over the water, suddenly weary and anxious to have everything out in the open.

The haze of psychological retreat is gone; Shikamaru's stare is as sharp as the edge of a dagger. She's said too much already, and he's too smart for his own damned good. But she can't seem to stop herself.

"If I met the perfect man," she continues, "and fell in love, and got married, even a great marriage may never become anything as profound as this Ino-Shika-Cho bond."

She laughs sharing this realization, and doesn't quite manage to hide the bitterness. "How could even the perfect guy be a better partner for me than the two of you have been? We've bled together, suffered together, succeeded together. It would be years before someone could understand me the way the pair of you already do."

The weight of that looming loneliness presses her keenly, and she very nearly gives up the truth. But before she can confess, she remembers Shikamaru's nervous, stiff hands undressing her sleeping teammate, and Chouj's still-damp hair falling over his shoulder. And their matching flushes tonight, two hopelessly unromantic, awkward goofs hopelessly in love.

She bites her tongue.

Shikamaru studies her with glittering black eyes, frank and curious. Under his openly speculative gaze, her resolve wavers. But finally she smiles, refusing to voice the words clawing at her throat, and regretfully folds her confession away for a better time.

"I guess most shinobi deal with that sooner or later, though, don't they?" she demurs. "Most people aren't lucky enough to fall in love with someone they know and trust as well their teammates."

A bemused line appears between Shikamaru's brows. "I hadn't thought about it. I suppose it's true, though." He is still watching her, still waiting for what hasn't been said.

Maybe Sakura knew what this felt like, this powerful connection between three people; maybe the Hokage had felt it as one of the great Sannin. Ino's ties to Shikamaru and Chouji are rooted in a legend as venerable as that of the Sage of the Six Paths. To be cut out of such a bond, pushed aside by their romance – it's almost unbearable.

It doesn't change anything, of course. She still means to have them, if she can. And with this resolution firmly in place, she plants her hands firmly on the tiled floor.

"Oh, well. Today's got trouble enough without borrowing tomorrow's," she quotes, and gets to her feet. "I'm just going to get my things from the room, and then I'll come back here and take a bath. It'll be kind of nice to have it to myself."

Shikamaru's brows shoot upward, and he takes a quick look around the bath. "Oh, _shit_. This is –"

"Yes, it is," Ino affirms gleefully. "I really thought the sign on the door would slow you down a little more."

"_Fuck_." He shoves his hands in his pockets, rolls his shoulders, and sidles to the door. "You, uh… you wanna check the hallway?"

Ino snickers, but she goes to the door and ducks her head out long enough to see that no one is about. "You're fine. No one's going to see you leaving the women's bath. And even if they did, people would assume you're either," she raises a finger, "a perfectly normal teenage boy spying on me," she raises another finger, "or a very, very lucky guy."

He follows her into the hall, rolling his eyes, but she notes his pink ears with a surge of triumph. "You're so full of yourself," he remarks, eying her disapprovingly. "Do you really think every guy you meet wants to be with you?"

"Just the ones with eyes," she retorts. "Besides, somebody in this team needs a healthy dose of self-respect."

He snorts. "My self-respect is fine. Yours is just in a league all its own."

"_Your_ self-respect?" It's Ino's turn to roll her eyes.

"Is fine," he repeats firmly.

"You have self-respect like Sai has a sense of humor," Ino jabs. "Like Sakura has charm. Like Guy has an eye for fashion."

Shikamaru winces. "Ouch."

"Like I have humility?" She grins archly, and he finally smiles back at her.

"I didn't know that word was even in your vocabulary. Bravo." He gestures, letting her pass before him as they round the corner into another empty hallway.

"I don't see the point in false modesty." Ino shrugs. "But I don't see any use in expecting myself to be perfect either, and that's your trouble."

He groans. "Not a lecture, Ino, I'm too tired."

"Not a lecture. Just something to think about."

His hands are still in his pockets, making convenient handles of his arms. She links elbows with him, ignoring his surprise, pointedly watching the numbers on the doors. "My boys are pretty damned close to perfect, anyhow, whatever they might think," she remarks matter-of-factly, without looking up. "If I could just do something about these self-destructive impulses they like to indulge from time to time."

They come to their door, and Ino pulls her arm free, allowing Shikamaru to open it. He turns the knob and swings the door open in complete silence, and they slip into the darkened room on noiseless feet, unwilling to wake Chouji if they can avoid it. As it happens, their concern is unnecessary. Across the room, the bathroom door is outlined by a thin rim of light. They share an uneasy glance that turns quickly to bitter disappointment as they realize Chouji is brushing his teeth.

Shikamaru swears. "I shouldn't have left him alone," he fumes.

"We," Ino corrects softly. "We left him alone. Come on."

Side-by-side, they cross the room, but before they even reach the bathroom to knock, the door swings inward. Chouji blinks at them owlishly.

"What's going on?" he asks. "Where did you two go?"

Shikamaru shakes his head angrily. "Never mind that. I told you to stay in bed."

Chouji's brows knit together in confusion. "I forgot to brush my teeth. I'm sorry."

An angry retort forms on Shikamaru's lips; Ino forestalls it with a hand on his shoulder. "Chouji, did you make yourself sick?" she asks, bluntly, because he can't lie to save his life.

Bewildered, Chouji replies, "How could I? You said that you would do it if I did." He raises a hand to the nape of his neck, embarrassed.

Shikamaru's ire dissipates, leaving a faint blush on his cheeks. "Geez, Chouji," he mutters.

Ino sighs, feeling both relieved and a bit stupid. Even if it had occurred to their innocent teammate to take advantage of their absence to purge himself of his dinner, he couldn't have gone through with it. He would not have risked Ino's making good on her promise to imitate him if he was found out.

"Sorry, Chouji," she apologizes, "I should have known better."

"Huh?"

"It doesn't matter," Shikamaru says, taking Chouji's arm and guiding him toward his bed. "I'm sorry. Just go back to bed. Everything's okay."

He eyes them both uncertainly for a moment before yielding to Shikamaru's gentle tug and ducking behind the noren to lie down. His teammates follow with sheepish smiles. For once, they are both pleased to have been wrong.


	15. Chapter 15

The last chapter I posted, I posted two weeks before I found out I was pregnant. Now my daughter is six months old, and finally sleeping long enough at a stretch to let me back into writing. I'm so sorry for the wait - thank you all for putting up with me! As always, this is not my world, just my playground.

Wide swaths of sunshine pierce the slatted windows, painting the room in even stripes of light and shadow, brightening the room as imperceptibly slowly as the movement of an hour hand on a clock-face. It's a cheery sort of morning, full of chattering songbirds and soft autumn breezes, and there isn't a cloud in the sky threatening to blot out the golden dawn. It isn't daylight or bird song that wakens Shikamaru, however. He's warm-natured; the natural moisture of the hot springs coupled with his sun-soaked blankets is stifling. He shoves the coverlet away with an aggravated groan and rolls over, turning his back to the windows and the annoying morning beyond them.

He wrinkles his nose when he hears a gentle snickering bubble across the room, but otherwise ignores the blonde giggler and tries to recapture his lost dream. Sleep proves evasive, so he contents himself with lying quietly and listening to the muted sounds of his teammates packing, whispering indistinctly between themselves. If the uncomfortable heat hadn't roused him, their activities wouldn't have disturbed his heavy slumber. The stirrings of his teammates as they fold away their beds and gather their things are surprisingly tolerable – perhaps even pleasant, he realizes, shifting again with a grimace, trying to find a cool spot to lie in. Maybe it's simply familiarity, he muses, because surely traveling with other shinobi was never so comfortable, regardless of the accommodations.

The pleasure he takes in sleeping late makes him the odd man out in his little team; Chouji is a light sleeper, who is rarely able to sleep in, and Ino is a natural morning person. By contrast, Chouji had often been forced to roll Shikamaru out of his blankets in the mornings and drag his lazy friend to his feet. This ignominy had been by far preferable to Ino's shrill demands that he rise. Mission after mission, Shikamaru had wakened resentful of her endless, mindless chatter, and it had taken many a long, boring lecture about respecting one's partners before she'd learnt to lower her voice and he'd learnt to accept that being shinobi meant doing things one wasn't especially inclined to do.

No one had wakened Shikamaru intentionally this morning, though, and as there is absolutely no reason to get up, he lies motionless, relishing the comfortable bed and the slow awakening. Between his occasional, violent nightmares and his mother – who has an even more piercing morning voice than Ino – sleeping in is a rare treat. So he ignores the tiny twinge of guilt Ino rouses in his belly when she chides Chouji for packing his things for him, a kindness the gentle man had unobtrusively performed for years.

"You don't have to do that, Chouji-kun," Ino murmurs. She sounds amused. "He's a big boy, he can do it himself."

"It's okay," Chouji whispers back. "He's had a rough time sleeping lately. You said this trip was for all of us, right? Let him get some rest. We're not in any hurry."

"You're too good to him." She chuckles. "Let's go eat breakfast," she suggests then, "you and me. We'll bring him something back. Maybe he'll be awake by then."

There's a long pause, and Shikamaru cracks an eyelid open. His team is on the far side of the room, just barely in his line of sight. Chouji is more or less facing him, but Ino is kneeling between them, so he can't see much. He can tell that Chouji's head is turned down and away from their teammate. Ino reaches out and ruffles the crown of spiky hair, which shines with a copper gleam in the morning light.

"What's wrong?" she asks, her fingers lingering on the top of his head.

"I… I don't…" He inhales sharply, and Shikamaru's ears twitch, straining for the almost inaudible whisper. "Would it be okay if we just brought breakfast back here to eat?"

"What? Afraid someone will think we're on a date?" Ino asks. She drops her hand and cocks her head to one side. The arch tone suggests a roguish sparkle in her eyes, a familiar glimmer Shikamaru doesn't need to see to imagine. "So what? He knows better, and he's the only one that counts." Her golden head tilts backward in Shikamaru's general direction.

A _date_? With _Ino_? Shikamaru thinks scornfully. Ino wouldn't be caught dead with…

Guilt flares at the back of his mind, unappeased by an ensuing onslaught of rationalization. Such a careless thought only could have been an extrapolation of her superficiality, he tells himself. Not an indictment of _his_ estimation of Chouji's physical attractions, but of _her_ flawed valuation of them. Right?

His stomach twists beneath his ribs, last night's denials ringing hollowly in his ears. As much as he wants it not to matter, for Chouji's sake and for his own peace of mind, maybe it does. In the tense, frightened hours before that first kiss, his body had responded to his friend's in a way it never had done before. He had maintained his self-restraint since they were twelve-year-old kids, through the first, awkward throes of puberty, and then through the hormones of mid-adolescence. But that night, with Chouji's shrunken belly and proportionally broader chest and shoulders exposed, his control had finally broken.

He wants to believe that his emotions had simply reached a tipping point, pushed to extremes by shock and horror, but his conviction is failing.

He had accused Ino – condemned her – for shallowness, he recalls, with an inward wince. But that night… had Chouji's sparer physique truly been responsible for the disturbance of his control? Could it be possible that he took some secret, guilty pleasure in the ravages of Chouji's breakdown?

The image of Chouji doing push-ups in the training field intrudes on his thoughts, and his mouth is suddenly full of cotton. The long line of him, muscles bunched under thin cotton, his perfect form, precise control, unparalleled strength. Beautiful. And an arm wrapped round his belly, trying desperately to push it back, hold it in, make it go away. Self-directed insults, to motivate himself into the next repetition, the next set, the next demanding routine. Even as Shikamaru watched, admiring the changes in Chouji's body, Chouji had been cruelly cutting himself down, pushing himself forward, determined to make those changes more pronounced.

Because Ino needed them.

And because Shikamaru liked them.

Vomit rises in his throat. He bites his lip and swallows it down, suddenly aware of tears on his cheeks.

He had accepted his cowardice, long ago, where Chouji was concerned. It was a fault of his heart with which his rational mind could sympathize, torn between the possibility of romance and the seemingly equally likely prospect of a friendship damaged beyond repair. Superficiality was harder to defend. If not for Chouji's refusal to eat and the grueling training program he had forced himself through, the punishing cuts and the unbearably tightened chain, Shikamaru may have never admitted the truth. They might have lived their whole lives without ever knowing the possibilities that existed between them.

All those years that he swore it made no difference, he had lied. To Chouji. To himself. Ino had been right all along, and on some level, Chouji had known it. Maybe Asuma had known it, too. Maybe those last words hadn't had a thing to do with encouraging Chouji to increase his speed and stamina by dropping a few kilos. Maybe he'd simply known that if Chouji slimmed down, leaner hips and a less ample belly would eventually force Shikamaru to confess.

He was as bad as Ino.

Worse. Ino had the good grace to be honest about what she found attractive.

As another giggle floats across the room, a new darkness creeps into his brain. Ino isn't faking indifference to the idea of someone mistaking her and Chouji as a couple. Shikamaru is one of few people who can see through her lies, and she isn't prevaricating to protect Chouji's shattered self-esteem. She has no qualms about being identified as Chouji's date. In fact, he realizes suddenly, she finds it rather titillating.

He shivers, despite the uncomfortable warmth. Some of his fundamental premises regarding Ino are skewed. Either she doesn't mind being seen with someone she finds unattractive, which he finds completely at odds with her well-established need to preserve her image, or she doesn't find Chouji unattractive at all.

"Why not?" Ino asks after a long pause. The laughter in her voice is gone, and Shikamaru curses his lack of attention. Chouji had finally replied, but the sound hadn't pierced the mire of Shikamaru's thoughts deeply enough for him to process the words.

"It's… it's just that… we're away from home. People there expect me to eat like… like a…"

The shame in his voice is heartbreaking. Shikamaru nearly rises, but his sudden epiphany about Ino keeps him in his bed. Nothing he can say will carry more weight than Ino's sincere regard, because she had once believed Chouji to be beneath her. If he is good enough for her, he's good enough for anyone.

Shikamaru never for a moment believed himself to be too good for his friend. If anything, he'd believed precisely the opposite. His conviction of this truth helps to steady him, and he manages to get his tears under control.

"Like an Akimichi," Ino supplies firmly. "Your clan's metabolism is not something you have to defend to strangers, Chouji. As part of the Yamanaka-Nara-Akimichi oath, you're not only the successor to one of the oldest bonds in shinobi history, but also the future leader of one of Konoha's four pillar families. That's something to be proud of!"

"I know," he replies, though he doesn't sound convinced. His voice drops lower. "But what if they stare?"

"I _hope_ you eat enough to make people so curious as to stare," Ino answers matter-of-factly. "You need quite a bit more than you've been getting. But I suppose if people are rude enough to ogle us, I'll just have to kiss you across the table and give them something else to think about."

"Ino!" Chouji's flush is visible across the room, and Shikamaru prays his own powerful flinch doesn't betray him.

Another chiming, tinkling laugh bubbles up. "Your swirls are disappearing, you're so red," she teases. "Don't worry, okay? Just come enjoy a nice breakfast with an old friend, and try not to think about anything unpleasant. Please? For me?"

Shikamaru can't see anything but the thick wave of her ponytail, but he can imagine the outrageous lash-batting that accompanies this sugar-coated plea. Chouji finally shrugs, helpless against her charms. Most men are.

That's a discomfiting thought, and Shikamaru rolls himself noisily over onto his stomach. If they want to have breakfast alone, he thinks, feeling uncharacteristically sullen, fine.

"Think that's our cue," Ino whispers. She hops to her feet and holds out a hand to Chouji, who stares at it for a moment before getting to his feet on his own. Then they slip out, leaving Shikamaru alone, aggravated, and confused.

_What's with her, anyway_, he fumes. One moment she was fiercely, almost maternally protective, the next she was a giggling flirt, and then she became her normal bossy, nosy, demanding self. Her personae changed by the minute, but there was nothing artificial in any of them that Shikamaru could detect. Were they all real? Or had she finally grown skilled enough to fool even Shikamaru into buying her acts?

He turns onto his back and stares at the ceiling. If Ino could potentially be attracted to Chouji, then some of the baffling things she'd said the night before became eerily, disturbingly explicable. It made him wonder whether he was the only one who had fallen for his teammate, and that made the breakfast for two and her joke about a kiss that much harder to stomach.

How had she put it? _The muscles and the pretty eyes, the sweetheart mouth and all that pretty hair…_

Surely friends didn't think about things like that? Those allures weren't necessarily the ones that first leapt to Shikamaru's mind, either, which meant they weren't features Ino had caught him admiring. Chouji's musculature was undeniably impressive, and his eyes were lovely, but it was his smile, his big, gentle hands, his sandalwood-and-vanilla scent, that drove Shikamaru crazy. So, did that mean Ino appreciated the bear-like physique? That her blue gaze had lingered over Chouji's mouth? His eyes? What the hell business did she have even looking?

Or touching, for that matter. Holding his hands and rubbing his shoulders, linking arms with him, touching his face, his back, his chest, his belly. Even kissing, once or twice, his cheek and his forehead. She'd kissed him before Shikamaru had.

Shikamaru slaps a hand over his eyes. He's a fool for thinking it. They're just good friends. Just friends. She was _happy_ Shikamaru had confessed. She wanted to _watch_ them kiss, for gods' sakes. And just because she wasn't horrified at the prospect of being mistaken for Chouji's girlfriend didn't mean that a girl who had always drooled over pretty boys had suddenly developed a taste for big men with long hair. It was just relief, just post-traumatic bonding.

But she had seemed so goddamned _raw_, so vulnerable.

_I will never hurt him again. I would rather die. _Ino didn't make promises she didn't intend to keep, and – unless she was nagging – she seldom indulged in hyperbole. Would he make such a vow to protect a friend?

_To protect Ino_, he allows, after some thought_. _But she is part of Team Asuma, and of Ino-Shika-Cho, and in some troublesome sense that makes her an indispensable part of him. Deeply buried though it may be, her bond with him is as irrefutably present as his own shadow. Perhaps the bond she had formed so reluctantly with Chouji has grown as inescapable as the one Shikamaru had formed with her.

She'd said as much, in fact, admitting that even falling in love might not produce the same attachment as their years of teamwork and shared triumphs and tragedies. Possibly, after so nearly losing Chouji, she is simply realizing for the first time how profoundly connected he is to her.

He groans aloud. There's a puzzle forming, but some vital piece is missing from the box, and damned if he knows where to find it.

Late that afternoon, when they first caught the fragrance of the ocean drifting over them and caught sight of the town on the shoreline, even Chouji, weary as he was, paused to take it in and enjoy it, much to his team's delight.

They had come here with Asuma, once. Kurenai had confided to them after their sensei's death that he had wheedled and pled and generally made a fool of himself for the Hokage to get that particular mission assigned to his kids. The seaside village had been a pleasant memory for him, one he wanted his team to share.

Ino had prowled the rows upon rows of peddlers lining the beachy shore, hawking their seashells and green sea glass, dried up starfish and sea-horses, brightly patterned sarongs and hand-crafted straw hats, and sweet tropical drinks that left the tourists red-nosed and generous. Shikamaru remembers clouds, their gray hue a shade or two brighter than the quiet, dark sea that stretched endlessly beneath them, mirroring the undulating water, until sea and sky kissed on the far horizon. He had been entranced with them, rippling patterns that paraded rhythmically across the heavens, as steady as waves, as inexorable as the tide.

Chouji, being Chouji, had loved the food. Thick, tangy, vegetable-laded soups and spicy noodles, meat roasted right on the hoof in pits on the beach, exotic citrusy fruits that made the mouths of Team Ten pucker, their eyes water. And the ubiquitous coconut. Ino had been sick to death of coconut. Shikamaru had no opinions one way or the other. Chouji liked only the roasted pork better. He wanted coconut in stews, in stir-fry, in drinks, in salads, curries and breads. He'd nearly made himself sick on coconut pastries. Grated and dried, or carved right from the hairy brown nature-made bowl, he had made it a personal goal to taste every coconut delicacy the village had to offer.

When Ino suggested they bring Chouji here to recuperate, Shikamaru had agreed whole-heartedly, hoping the pit-roasted pork and the coconut curries might be difficult for his suddenly fastidious friend to refuse. Chouji had raved about the soup at one particular shop, some thin, heavily spiced coconut broth loaded with cabbage, onions, and carrots. Shikamaru distinctly remembered being surprised that Chouji had even noted the soup, as he had downed six plates of coconut chicken curry afterward. Surely the smells in that place would tempt Chouji to eat his fill.

With this in mind, he had suggested the restaurant for dinner as soon as they arrived, but Chouji vetoed it with a bright flush and a murmured, "Please, no." Afterward, Ino had pulled him aside and reminded him that Asuma had been extremely put out with how much Chouji had put away before a mission. It hadn't kept Chouji out of the shop, but having been scolded by his sensei, he had never gone back to it with his team. He had forgotten that particular detail; another piece of Asuma that had slipped away with the inexorable tide of time.

Chouji had eaten somewhat better at lunch, alone with his team on the road, than he had at breakfast, surrounded by strangers who wouldn't understand his appetite. They decided to picnic on the beach for their supper, instead of patronizing one of the crowded shops.

"I know you don't want anyone to stare," Ino had explained, "but you _have_ to be able to eat in public, Chou. By dinner, most of the tourists will be gone, anyway. No one's going to be bothered about three people on a picnic."

While she hit the street vendors for local specialties, with a promise to choose only the healthiest options, Shikamaru had gone on with Chouji to the inn. It was nicer than the one Asuma had taken them to, but they weren't working, this time around, and Ino thought it worth the splurge for Chouji. Given the way the day's travel had worn on the injured, half-starved shinobi, Shikamaru was glad he hadn't argued the point.

He stood quietly by, dark eyes fixed on the stunning sunset outside the lobby window, while Shikamaru had checked in with a smiling brunette girl. Her arch smile and knowing look would have been completely inappropriate only a few days before, and Shikamaru had almost growled at her that the rest of their unit would be arriving shortly. He thought better of it. To Chouji, it would have almost certainly sounded defensive, as if Shikamaru didn't want anyone to know that they were… well, whatever the hell they had become. So he swallowed his aggravation and very pointedly rested a hand on Chouji's shoulder, to shake him out of his reverie and guide him toward their room, much to the titillation of the pretty girl behind the receptionist's desk.

They stow their gear, because even on leave they travel lightly, and never really unpack. If suddenly ordered home, they could clear the room of everything in their possession in under three minutes.

"Come over here," Shikamaru says now, stretching out in long plane of light streaming in from their window, which faced the setting sun. Propping himself up on one elbow, he beckons his teammate with his free hand. Silently, Chouji moves to his side, cheeks flaming, and sits seiza-style.

"Not _there_." Shikamaru sighs, resigning himself to the awkwardness, and firmly slaps the ground beside him. "Lie down." Chouji's breath quickens, but he does as he's told and lies on the floor, flat on his back.

"Now come _here_." In one smooth motion, he takes a wrist and tugs it behind him, rolls onto his back and pulls Chouji over onto his side, so that one meaty arm is draped over his stomach. Stealing a hand around the nape of Chouji's neck, he guides the mane of wild hair to rest on his chest. With Chouji's face turned away, he allows himself a grimace for his nervously pounding heart.

Chouji lies there stiffly while Shikamaru combs thin fingers through the honey-colored cascade, trying to make him relax. After several minutes of this with no success, he huffs, discontented. Chouji jerks.

"Is your arm asleep? Do I need to move?" he asks anxiously, raising his head.

Shikamaru tightens his grip on the arm draped over him. "Don't you dare," he answers, careful to keep any heat from his tone. "If I could just convince you _not_ to move, I could lie here forever."

He had bent his arm beneath his head, but he pulls it free to press Chouji's head against his heart, lying flat on the floor. "Be still, won't you?" he admonishes, closing his eyes.

"Sorry," Chouji whispers, settling down.

"And quit apologizing," he adds with a crooked, lazy smile. His heart rate is almost normal again.

They lie quietly for several long minutes. The balmy evening wafts comfortably in through open windows, heavy with the briny perfume of the sea. The timeworn wood of the floor is warm to the touch, as if it had soaked up decades of the southern sun, storing it up for cloudy days like this one. They are too near the beach – the quick, happy chatter of the tourists runs counterpoint to the rhythmic pulse of the ocean. But he doesn't mind even that, just now. Chouji lies docile against his chest, and Shikamaru feels pretty genially disposed to mankind. He winds his fingers in Chouji's hair.

"Chouji."

The big shinobi's throat works nervously against his chest as he swallows. "Yeah."

"What are you thinking, right now?"

A long pause precedes a noncommittal, "I don't know."

"Don't lie," Shikamaru answers, his tone comfortably relaxed. He doesn't bother opening his eyes and leaves his hands tangled in Chouji's honey colored mane.

"I don't want to tell you," Chouji confesses, hunching into himself a little. His unsteady breath teases Shikamaru's chest, hot and wet.

"At least that's honest."

He doesn't press further, but lies stretched on the floor, modeling the serenity and calm he wants his friend to imitate. It's Ino's trick, controlling an encounter by setting the tenor of it herself and sticking to it, regardless of the other person's reaction. Asuma's trick, really, but what his teacher had managed purely unconsciously as a result of his cool unflappability, Ino had turned into an art. An unstable situation can rarely deteriorate into awkwardness or conflict if one party is unwilling to participate.

Even now, it was Ino's advice keeping Chouji still and quiet against his breast, not his own ingeniously useless brain.

But he does have something Ino doesn't. She is impulsive to a fault, too eager complete the mission, to get home, to grow up, to get on with life – always running, always on the move. Shikamaru is possessed of endless patience when he chooses to be, whether pursuing a goal or contemplating a move. And he knows Chouji better than he knows his own soul.

Exactly as he predicts, after a long while, Chouji speaks up. "It's…it's like a voice in my head," he admits, in a rough whisper, his voice choked with shame. "It never stops. Never leaves me alone." A shiver runs through his back and shoulders, and Shikamaru can only guess at what the admission cost him.

His breath stills in his chest for only a moment, and then he starts to stroke Chouji's hair again. He wagers a guess. "Never stops criticizing?"

Chouji nods silently, and Shikamaru doesn't push further.

"I'd like to be the voice in your head," Shikamaru muses aloud. "Or at least the voice of _reason_ in your head." He raises himself just enough to brush his lips against Chouji's forehead, sending his heart rate soaring once again.

"You're acting like your own judge and jury, but you're not defending yourself. When you can't stop criticizing yourself, can't you try to imagine what I would say, if I could talk to the voice in your head? Me, or Ino?"

Chouji rounds his shoulders, and Shikamaru him well enough to know he's going to disagree before he ever opens his mouth.

"But you're biased, Shikamaru. I've never understood why you hang around with me. Whatever it is you think I am that's so great, I'm just not. It's the one thing you've always been wrong about." He sounds so weary, as if this is a topic they've argued a hundred thousand times, even though he's never come right out and given his opinion. Never given Shikamaru the option of arguing him out of his flawed perspective. And now, before Shikamaru can dispute the point, he goes on. "Ino feels guilty about what happened, and so she won't tell me what she really thinks."

Thinking quickly, because something tells him redirection will be more effective than argument, he replies, "Then think of what Asuma would say. Asuma always told us the truth about ourselves. And he didn't sugarcoat anything when it came to our weaknesses."

"I…" He settles disconsolately into Shikamaru's chest. "Do you think he would approve?" he asks, hesitantly. "Of… of this? Of us?"

Shikamaru blinks. _Shit._

"He knew, Chouji," he answers, kicking himself. It had never occurred to him that his friend hadn't known that Asuma was in on Shikamaru's big secret. "He was the one person I talked to about it, when I first figured it out myself. Ino overheard the conversation, so she's known for years, too. _I_ didn't know she had been eavesdropping, so I guess she can keep a secret better than I ever gave her credit for. So all three of us knew how I felt. You were the one nobody could read."

Chouji shifts so that he can study Shikamaru's rueful eyes. "I thought I was really obvious. I was always afraid you would guess."

"I guess I'm not as smart as they say, then."

"Yes, you are."

He lays a hand on Chouji's head and gently pushes it back down to his chest. "He didn't disapprove, Chouji. The last time we spoke about it was just a few weeks before he died. He basically called me a coward for not saying anything. Told me that it was time to nut up and come clean."

"You're not a coward."

The automatic responses make him smile. He is so black-and-white, so absolutely simple in his views. Not unsophisticated or uninformed, just assured of his convictions. It's such a lovely contrast to Shikamaru's own convoluted musings, and he wishes he had that same passion, that same capacity to believe.

"He said…" A bittersweet memory raises a lump in his throat. "The first time we talked about it, he told me you would never initiate anything between us, no matter what your feelings were. That you didn't feel like you deserved even my friendship, so you would never risk it. I guess he didn't realize I felt the same way."

"That's ridiculous." Chouji sits up instantly. A bird that had lighted on their window sill soars off with a frightened squawk, throwing a swift shadow over Shikamaru's eyes. "Why would you think that? You're amazing! The whole village knows that."

"It's not that my self-esteem is so terrible," he replies. "I know I'm useful. I think I get a lot of credit for things that most people could figure out if they just paid attention, but whatever. But you…" He groans and sits up. "Gods, Chouji. You just don't even have a clue. You don't know how unique you are. And I can't help thinking that it's because no one's ever just fucking told you. And I should have. The way I felt about you, I had an obligation to, and I didn't. Because I was a coward. If you knew your own worth, if you hadn't need me to validate you all the time, you might have gone a totally different path. Had the confidence to ask Ayame out, like you used to talk about."

"I didn't want Ayame. I wanted you." This sudden admission makes him flush and look away. Realizing he's unwittingly given himself an opening, Shikamaru takes it.

"Did you like her at all? Or was that just a pretense?"

Chouji shrugs. "No, I liked her. She's sweet, and pretty. And she can…" He closes his eyes painfully. "Never mind. Not important."

"I'm a _terrible_ cook, Chouji," Shikamaru notes, amused. At Chouji's flinch, he adds, "And it's okay to like someone for their talents. But I guess my point was… she's a girl. Do you… are you…?"

Chouji rolls himself forward onto his feet and goes to the window. The light is dying away outside, and with it the noise from the beach.

"I've always thought there was something wrong with me," he says softly, after a long pause. "I mean, I know that's _how_ it's done. I get that. But I never really _understood_, like everybody else seemed to. Why it had to be one or the other. People are just people, aren't they? Can't they like each other for who they are, and not which bath house they use?" He turns around, and there is a confusion in his eyes that is paradoxically innocent and world-weary. "Do you think souls have sexes, Shikamaru?"

Shikamaru shivers despite the warmth, and wonders again that Chouji can't see how special he is. "I don't know, Chouji. I don't think so."

He motions for his friend to come and sit beside him, and they watch the sun drop below the horizon together. Shikamaru has avoided sunsets for a long time; they reminded him too strongly of Asuma's lit cigarette dying out. It's like old times, sitting on the rooftop together, except there are no chips, and their childhoods are long past.

"Why are the lights out?" Ino wonders, as she sweeps in, arms full of aromatic boxes, bags, and lidded bowls.

"We were watching the sun go down."

"Awww." Ino smiles. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"No!" Chouji is quick to include her, quick to end what Shikamaru felt had been intensely private. "We can all watch the stars come out during the picnic. The view from the beach will be better for that, anyway." He gets to his feet to take some of her load. "How did you carry all of this without spilling anything? Come on, Shikamaru. There's too much here for her to carry by herself."

_Ino_, remarks some hateful, masochistic part of Shikamaru's psyche, _has a beautiful soul_.


End file.
